
K'ml^^. 



A VOICE 



FROM THE SOUTH 



i-^" 



T<3-^ 



By 



LAURA LORRIMER. 






.1 



/* 



-Cc -. J./U 




PRIXTED FOR THE AUTimRr^ — 

Southern Methodist Publishing House, 

Nashville, Tenn. 

1SS3. 






Copyright, 1882. 



To 
"^O MY LITTLE GRANDDAUaHTER, 

ALLEN. . 

I HAVE JOURNEYED TO PoET-LAND AFAE ; 

LO, WHAT I BRING YOU FROM THENCE, SWEET ! 

For his dear name's sake of whom you are 
A growing memory. Your eaby feet 

To earth, when he left it, yet were new. 
Fresh from the paths of paradise. 
Your kin, the angels, look out from your eyi 

I CROWN, with these SONGS, HIS NAME IN YOU. 



^^=^^^^=^ 



^^ 



PREFACE. 

As one may stand on the threshold of a darkened room with lies- 
itating, half-reluctant steps, so I linger ere, -whether for weal or woe, 
I send these Poems, collected, to the world. They were written with 
no thought of fame, but rippled from my heart to my lips and my 
pen as freely as water flows, flowers bloom, and birds sing. Time 
will decide what success may follow my timid knock at the door of 
the literary world. 

Part of the poems in this volume now appear in print for the first 
time. The others are gathered up from journals and magazines of 
twenty years gone by. Many of them are from the columns of the 
Louisville Journal^ and I should be very ungrateful if I did not 
liere say how much I owe to the kind encouhagement and praise of 
its brilliant poet-editor, PrenTiCE. 

Tennessean by birth, Alabamian by adoption, in Kentucky most 
of my early songs first saw light; and I may be pardoned if to tiiese 
three States I turn wistful, yearning eyes. 

These Poems, I acknowledge, might be better; I think they might 
have been worse. To the mercy of a generous public I leave them, 
sure that if they have any merit it will be discovered; and could 
that public, which I now invoke, know the many disadvantages un- 
der which they were written, tliey would, I think, cast over their 
faults the mantle of that "charity which sufTereth long, and is kind." 

Lauka Loreimer. 
(5) 



<^^! 




CONTENTS. 



Miscellaneous Poems. 

PAGE 

The Fever-sleep. (A prize poem.) 13 

Our Children 21 

Lines to a Picture 23 

Edith 27 

To Mrs. V S ,. . . 28 

For a Kose 30 

I was but Untliinking 31 

Thou art Gone from Me, Love 32 

Leila 33 

I '11 Come to Thee, Love 35 

"Kismet" 3(3 

To Fannie. (Twenty-one.) 38 

" Weep, Proud Maiden " 39 

Mute , 41 

To 42 

A Romance 44 

To 46 

To Louis Kossuth 47 

A Message 49 

Alma Vere 50 

Back Again 52 

" Poeta Nascitur, non Fit " 53 

The Appeal 54 

The Answer 56 

Toil 59 

Lines on the Death of Crittenden ()0 

Sibyl Lee 61 

To H. R. L , 63 

Allen's Letter 64 

Isadore 65 

The Anodyne 66 

The Death of the Year 67 

One Song More 71 

(7) 



8 CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

Jewels for Lethe 73 

The Moor-land Grave 74 

The Word and Name 77 

A Dream 78 

The Betrayed 80 

"You Don't Love Him" 82 

To 85 

Have I Loved in Vain? 86 

They Call Tliee a Poet 87 

"My Fairy Gift" 88 

Woman's Love 90 

Passion-flowers . 91 

" Why should I not be Sorrowful?" 92 

To W. K. B 93 

Say, Can the Poet Lose his Power? 95 

Daisies 97 

Ghosts 98 

In Memoriam : " Crow " 99 

They told me Thou wert Haughty 100 

The Death-sleep 103 

"What is Love?" 104 

Sunrise and Sunset 106 

Magdalen 109 

Implora Pace! 110 

To Mrs. M S Ill 

A Phantom 112 

Waiting 113 

"Out of the Depths" 114 

Memories 115 

The Children of the Soul 117 

To G. E. G 120 

"Vita est Nihil sine Fama." (To .) 121 

The Wanderer 1 23 

To Fannie, on Eeceiving her Photograph 125 

Friendship, Love, Trutli 127 

"For Better, for Worse" 128 

A Song for a Poet. (To S. D. H.) 129 

Friends 130 

Love and Pride 131 

The Song-spirit 133 



CONTENTS. 9 

PAGE 

Florence is Coming 135 

Forty-three 137 

The Harp, the Angel, the Flower, and the Star 138 

The Poet's Life 140 

Lady Blanche 141 

"As Artless as a Child " 144 

A Valentine 146 

I Love Thee Still 147 

Bahy Allie 151 

Never Again 152 

Life's Lessons 153 

A Song of the Past 156 

Together, yet Apart 158 

A Wasted Life-time 159 

Mementos 161 

" Did You ever Love a Spirit?" 164 

"Trust Not" 166 

Thou hast Bowed before Another Shrine 167 

A Gift of Flowers 169 

To 170 

The Leper's Child 171 

Eoline 172 

" They Say " 178 

Eighty-two 180 

Monsieur L' Anonymous 181 

To a Beautiful Lady 182 

Ma-Mignonne 183 

My Dreams. (Dedicated to Mr. J. L. James.) 184 

An Easter Card. (For Vida.) 188 

Le Roi est Mort; Vive le Roi ! 189 

"What is a Kiss?" 191 

Mabelle 193 

The Poet's Choice 195 

The Condemnation of Christ in Pilate's Judgment-hall 198 

Child-dreams 199 

The Baby 202 

Laus Deo ! 203 

Chattanooga 206 

"Coir a Glaive" 207 

Qiiestioning 209 



10 CONTENTS. 

Southern War-songs. 

PAGE 

The Star of the South 213 

The Jackson Volunteers 21-4 

The South 215 

The Southern Pleiades 216 

Alabama 218 

Where Tennessee Is 219 

Kentucky 221 

Alabama to Kentuck}- 222 

To Col. Harris, of the Eightli Georgia, with Flowers 223 

Our Flag 224 

Temperance Poems. 

A Plea. (Read in the Alabama Legislature.) 227 

The Elf-king's House 228 

The Second Cain 230 

John Smith's Soliloquy 231 

Memorial Poems. 

Underneath * 237 

Sentinels 238 

Do They Eemember? 239 

John A. Shelton 240 

Hon. P. Eagland 241 

Lines in Memory of S. B. Shelton 242 

Memoria in ^Eterna 243 

W. L. Shelton and Mrs. E. J. Phillips 244 

Capt. Jasper J. Jones 246 

Mamie Terrel 247 

Mr. and Mrs. Butler Anderson 248 






Miscellaneous Poems. 






THE FEVER-SLEEP. 



A PRIZE POEM. 



There was a Heela raging in my soul, 

Of wild emotions which might not be stilled. 

Through its dim arcades flashed the murky light, 

In fltful coruscations, and each niche 

Grew all irradiate. On the year's broad breast 

Four months had wreathed their coronals and died, 

For it was May; but in my fevered soul 

The sweet May-flowers had withered, and upon 

Its myrtle garland slept a mildew blight. 

One year ago that very May, I bent 

In love and faith beneath the deep blue heaven, 

And as the stars w^ent floating up its arch. 

My soul was floating on the passionate breath 

Of new, strange music to a fairj^-land. 

Life then was golden-tinted; I had not ^ 

One unbelieving thought; I could not link 

The purple glory of my dreams in one; 

They wavered, flashed, tind paled like sunset gleams^ 

Through the proud arches and pilastered domes 

Of Southern climes. O! I had ijcver known 

(13) 



14 A VOICE FROM THE SOUTH 

Aught half so blissful, and I lived an age 

In every breath which chronicled that hour 

Of my existence. Immortality 

Seemed charactered upon it, and I heard 

The low, sweet chiming of a thousand streams, 

Which swept their crystal through the amaranth 

bowers 
Of Aiden, and the mystic language grew 
Articulate. I seemed to hear them say 
That love like this could never die; that through 
The march of centuries to Eternity, 
Its hymn of adoration still would rise 
And tremble on the air. I have had dreams 
Which crowned my spirit, as I walked amid 
The shadowy vale of visions, with a band 
Of all unearthly radiance, but 0! none 
So bright as those which clustered round me on 
That sweet May midnight, when my eyelids drooped, 
Dank with the dews of slumber on my cheek, 
And the soft echo of love's thrilling words 
Still lingering around me. IIow my soul 
Grew gently luminous with gleaming wings, 
As the night-sky with stars I 

May came again; 
But my hot brow seemed banded with a chain 
Of living fire. My senses all were bound 
In the dread fetters of a fever-sleep. 
I struggled with my thralldom, and my thoughts 
Wandered within a narrow, darkened cell — 
Pale, wingless phantoms, striving to unlock 
The gates of destiny. Then strange wild birds. 
With eyes of fire and wings of lurid flame, 



A VOICE FROM THE SOUTH. 15 

Perched close beside me, and from time to time, 
Sunk deep their vulture beaks into my heart. 
I knew they were my incarnated passions, whicli 
The fever-demon mockingly had called 
Into a fierce existence. Closer still 
They flocked around me, and I was upborne 
Upon their rushing pinions through the stars. 
On, on to "outer darkness." There are orbs, 
AYhicli ages since flaslied down a golden ray. 
Whose earthward journey yet is scarce begun, 
And we had passed the farthest; now we stood 
At the closed gates of dread eternal night. 
"i?oom.'" shrieked, half humanly, each vulture throat; 
'■''Room for our burden!" Fetterless, the winds 
Roamed the abyss, and answered, ^^ There is none!" 

Time had not winged another moment ere 
Light flashed upon my e^^elids. On the earth. 
How one short moment oft has crowned my soul 
With years of rnpture, and I have grown old, 
Even in the foldhig of one warm caress! 
Another moment, and a star-throned isle 
Gleamed in the blue beneath ns. "We must rest,'' 
Moaned my fierce carriers. '■'■Room is for us here, 
In this fair planet; here our weary wings 
Shall leave their burden." Wooingly the waves, 
From their blue, throbbing bosoms, whispered 

''Come:' 
It was a lovely world; its temples lay 
Like heavy snow-rifts in the gentle light 
Of seven bright moons. It was a paradise, 
Which I had never imaged, even amid 



16 A VOICE FROM THE SOUTH. 

My wildest visions. Opiate incense rose 

From nameless flower-buds, like the heavy mists 

From the damp earth, and every nerve grew faint 

With dreamy languor. I was all alone. 

That star-world's sovereign. It had never yet 

Felt the soft stirring of an angel plume 

In its calm air. The chiming of the wave, 

The wind's low footstep, and the wild-bird's song, 

Were all its music. But my heart-strings still 

Were linked to earth, and to earth's passion-dreams. 

One cloud may veil the "day god's" fiery steeds, 

Even in the zenith of their blue-arched path; * 

And now earth-shadows severed from my soul 

The soft, gold arms of the caressing light. 

Wiser than I have tangled up their prayers 

In the dark tresses of a haugbty head, 

And sung a hymn to clay instead of God; 

And I am but a mortal, so I had 

An idol with me, e'en among the stars — 

A name to which my soul forever sung 

As to a deity, and whispered words 

Of half unearthly worship. 

Hours, or months 
It might have been, grew gray and died, but yet 
There came no day. My spirit could not count 
Time's heavy throbbings, but the very air 
Seemed faint and tremulous with an unseen 
And mighty presence. Four bright pinions came 
Floating above me, and then wavered down 
Like the gold leaves of autumn by my side. 
Beautiful angels were they. Love and Faith; 
But Love stood nearest, bending o'er ni}' heart. 



A VOICE FROM THE SOUTH. 17 

As if to count its tlirobbings. God had sent 
Visible angels, thus to symbol forth 
The thoughts invisible which tilled my soul. 
O! in the heavens, Israfel's sweet lute 
Ne'er to his fingers thrilled as did my heart 
To the soft music of their murmured words. 
That angel lullaby! My lids drooped down. 
Charmed with its opiate. To the land of dreams 
I bore the vague, sweet echoes of the song: 

"Slumbers be thine. 
Gentle and deep. 
Queen of the star-isle, 
Rest in our keep! 

"Chased by our pinions. 
Trouble shall fly; 
Ever around thee 
Rise Love's lullaby. 

"Faith ever near thee 
Guardian shall stand, 
Love round thy forehead 
Twine her bright band." 

The music died in wai lings. O'er the sky 

Swept a dark tempest, and my star-isle shook 

To its foundations; fiery lavas rolled 

In desolating fury down the slopes 

So grand with beauty, and the temples fell 

In shapeless masses on the trembling earth. 

My angel guards had fled; beside me stood 



18 A VOICE FROM THE SOUTH. 

A demon presence, giant-like and stern. 

Fearfully beautiful twined the iris crown 

In the black billowy locks which swept away 

From the lost angelhood of his broad brow — 

Fit rival for the passions glowing fierce 

And tiger-like in the wild orbs beneath. 

Silent in d6mon majesty he stood, 

But ever and anon the he^vy wings 

Shook almost to unfolding, and the mists 

Dropped from them, leadenly, upon my brow. 

All, all was silence, save the wild heart-throbs 

Which strove to burst their prison, for I shrunk 

In voiceless terror from the bitter smile 

Which curved the haughty lips, and from the stern 

And blasting gaze of those dark, fiery eyes, 

I rose and strove to fly, but demon wings 
Flapped heavily around me, and a voice 
Which filled the universe hissed in my ear 
The awful words : " Down ! down ! to meet thy doom. 
Thou hast lost heaven for earth, and staked thy soul 
Against a mortal's love. For one whose brow 
Is crowned with amaranth, thou hast flung down 
The gauntlet to Omnipotence. Depart! " 
I was a wanderer. A mark was set. 
Like Cain's, upon my forehead, and alone 
Amidst the mighty forests of the West 
I writhed my way. Like sleeping Titans lay 
The mountain-ranges in the dim gray light 
Which heralded the dawn. Before me rolled 
The ocean, with its hungry waves astir. 
Leaping in eager bounds upon the strand, 



A VOICE FROM THE SOUTH. 19 

Like wild beasts on their prey. 

""Alas!" I cried, 
"Alas for thee! my own sweet spirit-love I 
Thou art not now beside me, but thy deep 
And passionate words are floating round my heart 
Like angels in the darkness, and again 
I drink a haunting music from their swell; 
Their memory comes like echoes from the past — 
The blessed past. Will no one ope the gates, 
And lead me backward to that glorious land, 
And to the idol of my girlhood dreams 
And their wild fervor?" 

Then a Genius came. 
And he unlocked the caverns of the deep; 
Then bore me downward to the blue sea halls. 
And, midst those coral grottoes, cooled my hands 
In crystal vases. There the opal shone 
With mystic radiance, and the emerald wreathed 
The pale dead brows, which gleamed up white and 

strange 
Amid the sea-weed. O! they slept with pearls 
And all things beautiful, and the great waves 
Forever pealed a requiem o'er them; and 
Thus shall they sleep until Time's dying throbs 
Shall shake the universe. 

"Go seek thy love," 
Whispered the spirit, and a mocking smile 
Bent his red lip. "Perchance he sleepeth here 
In Keptune's regal palace." 

One by one 
1 numbered o'er the dead, and wandered on 
For weary miles. I lifted raven curls 



20 A VOICE FROM THE SOUTH. 

From many a brow, and bent o'er many a lip; 
But yet saw none which bore the spell of his 
For whom I sought with hopeless, patient love. 

tSoft through the waters, gleaming like a star, 
FUished a clear ray. "Sweet love," I murmured 

then, 
"Be this the guide to lead my steps to him." 
Fresh glories gleamed around me. liainbow-hued 
And crimson sea-iiowers climbed a coral arch 
And draped a regal couch ; and there he lay, 
I^ot pale and dead, but warm and rich with life. 
Age yet had pressed but lightly on the brow, 
So glorious in its beauty, and those curls 
Of raven darkness swept its marble breadth 
In shadowy magnilicence. The eyes 
Had learned not coldness from the frozen years 
Which rolled their heights between us, the full lipa 
Were curving their rich crimson in a smile, 
And angel pinions drooped with silvery sheen 
From the broad shoulders. Like a peal of bells, 
He syllabled my name. I never thought 
If he had wings on earth, or was so fair; 
But still I nestled in his warm embrace. 
And then he said one cabalistic word 
From him would ope those portals as the sun 
Unbars the gates of day. With trumpet-voice 
He breathed the mystic spell. A thousand flowers 
Seemed blending all their blossoms into one, 
A thousand music echoes seemed to sweep 
Into infinitude, and dazzling rings 
Of golden light in widening circles flashed 



A VOICE FROM THE SOUTH. 21 

Atlnvtu't my vision, and my fever-dreams 

Were torn apart as by a wizard spell. 

Yet one remained, the sweetest one, to be 

A sweet reality. A proud face bent 

O'er my pale brow, and wooing, loving words 

Charmed my weak senses. All athirst, I drank 

The God-sent nectar, and my pulses beat 

With healthful throbbings. Life to me once more 

Was beautiful, and the great boundary-line 

Which spanned my Eden was Eternity. 



OUR CHILDREN 



Down the purple slopes of girlhood 

Strays my soul to-night alone, 
From the past's rich sheaf of treasures 
Softly gatliering up its own. 

Down in many a shady valley, 

Rich with spells of by-gone hours, 

When songs Hoated from my spirit 
Like the perfume from the flowers. 

And on many a misty hill-top 

Sadly droops its earth-soiled plume, 

For the hills have lost their glory, 
And the vale has lost its bloom. 

Sang I when my life seemed golden, 
Bright as morning's radiant star, 

Of a cot where hovered breezes 
Sweet as those of Malabar. 



22 A VOICE FROM THE SOUTH. 

Where the roses in the evening 
Seaward send their dying sighs, 

Floating soft as angel-pinions 
Beneath blue and balmy skies. 

Sang I of a baby angel, 

Playing mid the dew}^ flowers; 

Yet the song was all ideal. 
For the angel was not ours. 

Now, within our Southern cottage 
Tiny, gold-haired, blue-eyed things, 

Two, as pure as lily-blossoms. 
Rest with hidden seraph- wings. 

Ah! a burst of childish laughter 
Softly swells upon the air; 

Never rose such wild, sweet music 
From a form that was not fair. 

Our sweet boy I down sweep the lashes 
O'er his broad, white-lidded efes, 

Where tlie sea-shelTs rosy lining, 
Blushing, on his white cheek lies. 

And his forehead, like a snow-wreath, 
With its crown of golden hair, 

Seems to whisper of the angels 
Who have left their kisses there. 

And we have a younger blossom. 
Pure as Oman's purest pearl; 

She is one of God's evangels, 
Our sweet blue-eyed bal)y girl. 



A VOICE FROM THE SOUTH. 23 

With a poet-name we crown her,* 
Though around her forehead fair 

Ne'er may rest a laurel circlet 
Such as his proud temples hear. 

Yet ma}' her soul's pure temple 
Some sweet guardian spirit win, 

World unheard and world unheeding, 
Breathing melody within! 

And if, in their blessed childhood. 

Death should break our angel flowers, 

May the buds but bloom more brightly 
In the far eternal bowers! 

they are two angel blossoms! 

Fair and stainless may they grow. 
Till our Father's hand transplants them 

Where t\\e fadeless lilies blow! 

* Prentice. 



LINES TO A PICTURE. 



An! glorious image, I have bent above 

Thy still, cold beauty long, and striven to blend 

The living likeness floating in my soul 

With that proud semblance, till it started up. 

In breathing radiance, at the temple-shrine, 

Flashing with feeling, and the God-like gift 

Ot" genius waking on the noble brow. 

I have known thee long! it cannot be 

That but a few faint flowers have drooped and died 



24 A VOICE FROM THE SOUTH. 

Since we were strangers, that the star-like wreath 
Which clasps my spirit now is newly worn. 
Have we not met before in some dim state 
Of shadowy lyreexistence ., with the warm, 
Rich spell of pure affection in our hearts, 
Making their every throb a happy dream; 
And now remembrance hiintly struggles up, 
As wake the senses, burdened by the breatli 
Of bright exotic blooms? 

Has not thy voice 
Swelled, a deep music strain, upon the air, 
And stolen slowly upward from the past, 
Until my dreaming spirit scarce may tell 
The ideal from the actual? 'T is a strange, 
Mysterious spell. I sink to sleep at night 
Chisping thy image to my soul with pure 
Yet holy worship, as we think of those 
Who long have mingled with the radiant throng 
Of ministering angels, and I glide 
Thus on the wings of sleep to fairy-land; 
And while each breath of wind that sweeps along 
Wakes melody, and gold-winged forms float by, 
I sit low at thy feet, and clasp my hands, 
And look within the depths of thy dark eyes, 
Earnest with thought and tenderness, which rest 
Forever on me with a calm, sweet smile. 

Ah, gentle image, be it ever thus! 
Still let those chiseled lips, tliat soul-lit Ijrow, 
Bend gently o'er me like a dream from heaven, 
Borne on the wings of angel visitors, 



A VOICE FROM THK SOUTH. 25 

Wroatliing ni}- sipirit in a dreamy light 
As softly luminous as tlie starry gleams 
Pictured upon the Adriatic's breast. 
Fade the bright visions, and I wake at morn 
Kicli in tlie treasures of the dreaming land. 
Drawing forth link by link the broken chain 
Of the night's wanderings, binding them in one, 
I muse in the dim twilight o'er the past. 

Blessings upon thee for the glorious dreams 
Which starred the even with a pure, clear light. 
As, stealing softly from their Eden-home, 
The}^ clustered round my sloop! Blessings for all 
The sweet companionship, the soulful trust, 
Blent with those wanderings! 

O my tirst-found friend! 
My soul's first mate! till now I was so lone, 
Lone, lone amid the sunset's rainbow hues, 
Lone with the magic minstrelsy of wind 
Sweoj)ing ar(mnd mo, lone beneath the stars, 
Lone in the moanlight's gush, where, spirit-like, 
The leaves moved to and fro, casting their shade 
Upon my cold, pale cheek. 

They seemed to move 
A[)arf, and whisper in some hidden way 
Strange mysteries and fragments of dark lore. 
But now when I go forth sweet music weaves 
In every flutter — I have found the key 
Whicli makes all earth to mo an unsealed book 
Of Ji'lorious radiance. 



26 



A VOICE FRO 31 THE SOUTH. 



Thou art over here. 
Forever witli me, and my untaught soul 
Echoes a strong, a wikl, a deep response 
To the unwritten music of the night. 
The soaring melodies which hide away 
III dim, huge forests, hoary with the weight 
Of centuries, and wander through dark caves, 
But to rush forth like spirits^ and to sway 
The gnarled boughs with their iitful, restless breath, 
Sends back an echo, whispering as their own. 
To the soft winds that woo the rich perfume 
From orangC'tlowers and beds of endless l)Ioom 
In the sweet South and on the sun-loved plains 
Of Italy's bright clime, and gathers up 
The surging songs which wander o'er the sea. 

O dearest friend! the knowledge of thy love 
Is like a pure, bright star, a resting-place 
Where my sad soul may nestle, like a dove 
All worn and weary, ^Vith a drooping wing. 

Our spirits shall be joined in bonds of love 
Here and hei'eafter. O we will be one 
On earth, and one in heaven with the blest! 
One we will enter through the golden gates * 
Which bar us from the world of love on high; 
One, one in time, one in eternity! 




A VOICE FROM THE SOUTH. 27 

EDITH. 



TWINE thou a garland, sweet Edith! 

And twine it of orange-flowers — 
A fame-wreathed young dreamer pleadeth 

For a bloom from Love's odorous bowers. 
His proud cheek is flushing with feeling. 

And on thine rises up a rich light, 
Like the luminous gleams which are stealing 

From the star^braided bosom of night. 
Thy violet orbs are half hidden 

By the soft-sweeping fringelets of gold. 
Like the buds and blossoms of Eden, 

Which bright mists of incense infold. 
Thought-angels their censers ai*e Avaving, 

And Love's ruby chalice runs o'er, 
Thy soul's sacred archives engraving, 

With new and mysterious lore. 

Twine, twine thou a garland, sweet Edrth! 

And place the rich Wreath in his hand, 
Who in fetters thy young spirit leadeth, 

Its guide o'er life's perilous strand! 
O strange is that halo inwreathing 

Thy brow with its supernal gleam. 
And sweet that low chime which is. breathing 

Its music o'er life's flashing stream! 
Like one half of earth, half of heaven, 

Thou movest amid us to-night, 
As if thy pure si>irit were laden 

Too heavy with dreamy delight. 



28 A VOICE FROM THE SOUTH. 

blessings upon thee, sweet Edith! 

Fame's beautiful circlet will dim, 
But thy soul from the myrtle-flower readeth 

Forever the same burning hymn. 

In thy long amber ringlets, sweet Edith. 

How star-like the blossoms will shine, 
When he, whom the wing of Love speedeth, 

Shall lead thee his own from the shrine- 
When, as dew-drops on violets sleeping, 

The tears gather fast in thy eyes. 
And the white lids are o'er them sweeping, 

Like clouds on the blue Southern skies. 
Yet, wayward and fairj^-like being, 

Ere in heaven is written thy vow. 
Bend lowly before the All-seeing 

Thy beautiful garlanded brow, 
And ask him, O ask him, sweet Edith, 

That those holy blossoms of love 
]\Iay crown thy pure soul when it speedeth 

To the amaranth srardens above! 



TO MRS. V S. 



Lady, whilst within my spirit 

Thought's most radiant angels throng, 
Their pinions sweeping o'er the chords 

Shall woo for thee a song. 
Would, would it might be sweeter 

Than the breathings of perfume. 
Kissed by the gentle South wind 

From tlio snowv orange-bloom! 



A VOICE FROM THE SOUTH. 29 

So its memory might linger 

With thee many a dreamy day, 
When the lonely one who breathes it 

Wanders far, O far away; 
When the heart whose passion-pulses 

Now are throbbing like the sea 
Slumbers in a quiet church-yard 

Mid the hills of Tennessee. 

Hearts, "they say," are "out of fashion," 

Faith a "by-word," Love a name, 
And that one who strives to win them 

Only plays a " losing game." 
But they cannot go at midnight, 

When the stars burn bright o'erhead, " 
And, with sneers of proud defiance. 

Say that Faith and Love are dead; 
And if Fate should in my bosom 

Ever blight them with its curse, 
May God in that same moment. 

Crush me from the universe! 

For like the Orient city. 

With its gorgeous golden throne, 
And the gems upon the bosoms 

That were turned to lifeless stoue; 
Or a flower amid a desert. 

Or a lute without its strings. 
Were my life from 'neath the shadow 

Of their glorious angel-wings. 



30 A VOICE FROM THE SOUTH. 

And if the vessel, brimming 

With the grapes, whose purple bloom 
Love has gathered for my pressing, 

Drop scarce tasted to the tomb, 
Faith shall stand with gleaming pinions, • 

And my soul within her keep, 
Strengthened by her holy teachings, 

Child-like sob itself to sleep! 

Lady, life to thee is lovely, • 

Friendship bends before thy shrine, 
I would not bow to ask from Heaven 

A brighter lot than thine. 
Love has crowned thee with its myrtle, 

Faith has bound thee with its chain, 
On thy soul's harp rests no tear-drop, 

On its chords no rusted stain; 
And if Fame's proud wreath were resting 

Like a sunbeam on my brow, 
I'd trample it beneath my feet. 

To be as blest as thou ! 



FOR A ROSE. 



A SONG do you ask me? Ah I if you knew 
What fathoms deep I must dive in the sea, 

What perils dare in the dangerous deep. 
To bring up a pearl, if a pearl there be, 



A VOICE FROM THE SOUTH. 31 

You would take back your bidding, queeuliest rose 
Of the beautiful rose-bud "garden of girls," 

And be content with a blossom to wear, 
Instead of a cordon of hard-won pearls. 

For to those who have laid beneath the mold 
The glowing hopes of their girlhood's spring, 

It is often a weary task to smile, 
And often, alas! it is hard to sing. 

But at least I may give you a wish and a prayer: 
May your life be brighter and better than mine; 

And for every blossom you twine in your hair 
In your soul may a rarer garland shine! 

Until the "beautiful gates ajar," 

Waiting your coming, shall open wide, 

Where your and )ny vanished loved ones are, 
Where pleads for us all the Crucified. 



I WAS BUT UNTHINKING. 



I WAS but unthinking; I meant not to trifle. 
Or cast away lightly the heart I had won; 

I strove but the outward revealing to stifle. 

With my heart full of love as of glory the sun. 

I thought if I breathed the affection I cherished, 
The world might look scornful, and thou too 
might'st chide; 
Ah! thy love was but light, if thus soon it has per- 
ished — 
If, for phantoms like this, thou would'st turn 
from my side. 



32 A VOICE FROM THE SOUTH. 

Though to others my lips breathed forth murmurs 
of kindness, 
Though others in crowds caught a word or a smile, 
Thou knew'st that my heart of their worship was 
mindless, 
That my sad eyes were seeking thine own all the 
while. 

Ah! turn not so coldly away from my pleading; 

Thou canst not, thou dar'st not resist my wild 
prayer; 
As deep as my own thy proud spirit is bleeding — 

Take, take me again to my resting-place there! 



THOU ART GONE FROM ME, LOVE. 



The night-wind's low lute-tones 

Are whispering along 
O'er summer's bright flower-buds 

A passionate song. 
It bends its cool lips 

On each beautiful bloom 
Till its breathings are rich 

With a weight of perfume; 
But my heart keeps a vigil, 

Crushed pledges above. 
And it moans as it watches, 
"Thou 'rt gone from me, love." 

Those visions of glory 

Which clasped me have flown, 
My heart's holiest altars 

Are tireless and lone; 



A VOICE FROM THE SOUTH. 

The eyes wliicli flashed worship, 
Wikl worship in mine, 

Have veiled their proud heautj, 
And turned from my shrine; 

And my soul droops its wing, 
Like a death-strieken dove, 

All mateless and lonelj' — 
" Thou 'rt gone from me, love." 

The starlight still gleams 

On the quivering leaves; 
The wind-spirit still 

A low melody weaves; 
The flowers, to its kisses, 

Still breathe tljeir })erfume, 
As when with clasped hands 

We bent over their bloom; 
The star-flres still burn 

In the temples above. 
But they light not my soul — 
"Thou 'rt gone from me, love." 



LEILA 



An! Eastern-eyed Leila, come sit by ray side; 
They tell me, 3fa-3Iir/nonne, thou 'It soon be a bride. 
Like snow-drifts beneath the soft light of the moon. 
Lie the robes the}' have wrought thee in yon rich 

saloon, 
And Oman's blue de[)ths have surrendered their 

pcai'ls 
To bind tli\- dark tresses, O fairest of girls! 



84 A VOICE FROM THE SOUTH. 

They say he is n()l)le who sues for thy hand, 
And princely in beauty, one born to command; 
Like a ricdi swell of music his haughtiest tone, 
Pride in the deep murmur which calls thee his own; 
And well it may be, for he links to his line 
The blood of the Ind's proudest princes in thine. 

Come, darling, come rest on my bosom the while 
I drink in the light of thy beautiful smile. 
Till theflames again burn, longextinguished by tears, 
And gather a radiance to last them for years. 
Let thy soul brim a goblet of nectar for mine; 
Be this even my Hebe, O beauty divine I 

And whisper each rosy-winged vision of blis's — 
Tliou wilt not? Then listen, 3Ia-3Iif/nonne, to this: 
I've dreamed that from titles and lover apart. 
Like a dew-drop close clasped in a lily's pure heart. 
Thou guardest an image the world may not see, 
Yet "more than the w^orld" or its treasures to thee. 

ILi! diamond-eyed bird of an Indian sky, 
That shaft was well aimed, it unfettered a sigh; 
And O what a world of despair in *tlie moan, 
As pride swooned away on the steps of her throne! 
Hast thou learned, in its bitterness, heart-stricken 

dove. 
That " the 'wealth of the palace and cottage is love? " 

Last even thy footsteps were far on the hills, 
Thy dark eyes droojied down on the blue-bosomed 
rills; 



A VOICE FROM THE SOUTH. 35 

While the call of Lis kiiiii; held thy lovei' away, 
A minstrel-boy crowned thee with blossoms of May. 
Hast thou broken thy faith for a troubadour's song, 
And wrought thy betrothed one so deadly a wrong? 

Alas for this cai'th and its blossoms of love, 
Bnds won from the l)cautifnl, far-otf above! 
Like all that is lovely IxMieath the blue sky, 
They bloom but to fade, and they live but to die; 
Yet part not thy lips with the murmur, "Too late!" 
Ivise, daugliter of princes, and con([uer thy fate. 

Though pearls and bright jewels imband not thy 

lu'ow, 
Thy lips will have breatli-cd not an unholy vow; 
The laurel which twines in thy boy-lover's hair 
Is glory enough for thy forehead to wear, 
And the light of his love all the gems will outshine 
Thi'ough centuries won from thy father's proud line, 



I'LL COME TO THEE, LOVE. 



"\ViiEN the wind woos the leaves 

With its whispering song. 
When the music of dream-land 

Is wafted along. 
When the air is all radiant 

AVith forms from above, 
With tlie wind and the music, 

I'll come to thee, Ion'c. 



3G A VOICE FROM THE SOUTH. 

AVith pure, holy worship, 

Beside thee I'll kneel, 
And pour out in words 

The devotion I feel, 
And through moonliglit and starlight 

Together we'll rove 
Thus forever and ever; 

I'll eonie to thee, love. 

The stars shall glow round us, 

And visions of hliss 
"Will smile on us gently. 

And bless each wild kiss. 
Yes, amid the bright forms 

Tbrough the dream-land whicii rove, 
Like the South wind of summer, 

I'll come to thee, love. 

With perfume from flowers, 

I will bend o'er thy sleep, 
With the sky and the wave 

A sweet vigil I'll keep; 
And as flies forth to meet thee 

My soul, like a dove, 
Seeking out its true dwelling, 

come to me, love! 



KISMET." 



Into the halls of Sleep one day 
Wandered a phantom, grim and gray; 
Its bones were white as the foam of the sea, 
And its skeleton flnger pointed at me. 



A VOICE FROM THE SOUTH. 37 

"Hark!" it shrieked, and I heard the swell, 
Hollow and deep of a phantom bell. 
In a ghostly steeple the bell was hung, 
By ghostly lingers the dirge was rung, 
Like a minute-gnn at sea it boomed: 
^'■Doomed! Doomed!'" 

I looked to the sky, but not a star 
Told of the golden "gates ajar," 
And from the marshes foul and 'low 
Rose in the air a pliosphor glow; 
It lit the steeple, it lit the tower, 
As the clock in the belfry struck the hour — 
Strange and hollow uprose the knell 
Of the phantom clock, and the phantom bellj 
Like a minute-gun at sea they boomed: 
"■Doomed! Doomed!'' 

I looked to the East. I looked as one 
Looks the last time on earth and sun; 
And I saw a light more pure and clear 
Thau e'er belonged to an earthl}' s[)ljere — 
Crowned by its halo, tall and white 
The Cross of Calvary cleft the najht. 
Into the mists with a crash down fell 
Phantom steeple and phantom bell, 
For on the Cross this word was graved; 
''Sared! Sared!" 






38 A VOICE FROM THE SOUTH. 

TO FANNIE. 



TWENTY-ONE. 



"Silver and gold have I none; but such as I have give I thee." 
A LITTLE bird whispered a song in my ear, 
And this is the message it brought to me, dear: 
That to-day 3'ou have numbered your t\vent\-lirst 
year. 

Twenty-one summers of warmth ami of glow, 
Twenty-one winters of frost and of snow, 
Since your soft babj^-eyes opened on us below. 

The once baby-eyes are great tarns filled with light, 
Of which lovers may dream, of which poets may write ; 
And home-ties and blessings still crown yon to-night. 

You may wear gems more costlj' in on-coming years. 
The hand may be loving your life-bark which steers, 
But a father's proud blessing, a mother's fond tears. 

Arc rarest of jewels — O! cherish their ray, 
The dearest of gifts that are brouglit you to-day, 
Though its dawning had crowned you with garlands 
of ba}'. 

The "sibylline books" Fame has oft to you brought 
Are full of strange beauty; the clasps are of thought 
In which the weird "Merlin'-' his spells has in- 
wrousfht. 



.1 vo:ci: Frj)M the south. 39 

The years which have vanished beneath the white 

spray 
Of Time's heaving sea arc the books thrown away; 

Buy the rest, and she crowns you icith laurel and bay. 

But till yonr life-bark its fair pennons shall furl, 

Keep pure in your s[)irit that radiant pearl 

In the breast of the woman — llic heart of the yhi. 

And do not forget, when the future is bright 
As the fair constellations which girdle the night, 
The sibyl who tells you your fortune to-night. 



"WEEP, PROUD MAIDEN." 

Weep, proud maiden; thy sky is o'ercast, 

The stars are hidden by clouds at last; 

On earth, or from heaven, there beams no light, 

And thy heart is jnilled by a rayless niglit. 

Yet thou sittest there with a bearing high, 

A curving lip, and a tearless eye. 

Thy forehead bent on thy jeweled hand, 

Thy dark hair drooping in many a l)and, 

And none might tell from the cpieenly air 

That sorrow had garnered a harvest there. 

Unloose thy lip from its tension cold; 

If it quivers now, there are none to behold. 

For the stars are hidden, the Howers asleep, 

Thy heart is wruns;; and wilt thou not weep? 



40 A VOICE FROM THE SOUTH. 

"I may not weep; I would not unclose 

My soul from its sorrowful, deep repose; 

I uiay not waken a storm whose wings 

AVould lash to fury its hidden springs, 

I have never bent; were all earth estranged, 

My eye should look out, still cold and unchanged; 

The winds may sweep, and the tem[)est8 fall, 

l>ut this haughty spirit will stem them all. 

Were sorrows deeper, more cold each tone, 

I would struggle onward, forever, alone, 

And look up tlirough the clouds and misty air, 

And know, though hidden, tlic stars were there. 

The flowers in night-dew their bent heads may steep, 

The clouds rain rivers, but I will not weep." 

Weep, proud maiden; thou sitt'st by a bier, 
]^ew sorrows are gathering strange voices here; 
Thou hast seen by the sun's last lingering light 
The soul of a loved one take its flight. 
And the West's rich crimson-gleam was shed. 
Like an angel-crown on the brow of the dead, 
And it seemed resting there like a halo of love, 
Or a lingering ray from the Eden above. 
Lift those dark locks from the icy brow, 
And pour forth thy soul in a torrent now — 
The eyes are closed, and the hands are chill, 
And the bounding pulses forever still. 
There's a loved one gone to a dreamless sleep. 
Thou art sad and lone; and wilt thou not weep? 

I may not weep, for a crimson light, 

Like that on the brow of the dca.l to-night, 



A VOICE FROM THE SOUTH. 41 

Came upon my cheek with the summer's breath, 
And I welcome it now as the gh:)W of death. 
I have heard it whispered in murmurs low, 
That the starry bloom and the brow of snow 
Were heralds dread of a swift decline, 
And they said that an early death was mine. 
Then quick tears rose as remembrance came 
From the "silent land" with a cherished name. 
And an eye of tire, and a cheek of bloom, 
Destined in youth to the cold, dark tomb — 
I go to her, to a sweet, long sleep; 
I feel no sorrow, I cannot weep. 



MUTE. 



Mute? perhaps it is better so — 

A singing bird and a shattered nest I 

I thought that songs and blossoms should grow 
Together — but then, God knoweth best. 

Night and storm are ascowl in the sky, 
Night and storm are ascowl below, 

O singer mute! do yon never sigh 

For a draught from the fountaiiis of long ago. 

In the wearisome days and the wearisome nights, 
As you sit alone 'neath a storm-tossed tree, 

"Waiting the end? They sa}^ time rights 
Everv thinsj:. But 01 when will it be? 



42 A VOICE FROM THE SOU TIL 

Will peace but tall wlicii the failing breath 
Shall sa}" to the earth-worm, " Lo, I come?" 

When, in the terrible clutch of Death, 

Each sense sinks down with an' awl'ul numb? 

When out of the storm and dark von fly, 
Into the beautiful shadowless land. 

Brightened by blossoms tliat n.ever die, 
Fanned by breezes forever bland? 

The dear God knoweth what is the best, 
Best and safest for all of his things; 

When to give to the weary rest, 
And to the chrysalis its wings. 

So, mute bird, let thy oldeii strain 

Soar through the inlinite spaces away; 

There will come surcease to the sharpest pain. 
There will come an end to the lona'est dav. 



TO 



I WILL not forget thee: 

My eye may grow dim, 
And Fate's bitter cup 

May be filled to the brim; 
Life's rainbows may fade, 

All its flowers may lie dead, 
And years of deep sorrow 

May pass o'er my head; 



A VOICE FROM THE SOU TIL 43 

This eartlTs brig'htest stars 

In deep shadows may set, 
But I'll think of thee ever — 

I will not forget. 

The tresses wliich sweep 

O'er thy forehead of snow 
May h)se their dark tint 

In this dreary "below;" 
Bnt 0! keep unchanged 

The bright blossoms of love 
Wliieh come from the beautiful 

Far-oti". " above." 
And though but once only 

On earth we have met, 
Sweet lady, dear lady, 

O do not forget! 

Ere the brow of October 

Grows hoary and old. 
Thou wilt meet him whom I 

Have so longed to behold; - 
The brightest of all 

The bright stars in the baud 
Of poets who dwell 

In our glorious land. 
Be thou, gentle lady, 

The messenger dove 
To bear him my child-like 

Devotion and love; 
'T is a star in my spirit 

Which never will set — 
Then bear him this message: 

"0 do not forget!'' 



44 A VOICE FROM THE SOUTH. 

A ROMANCE. 



"Come hither, Mancle. The sun goes down to-night 

In regal mourning. See his purple robes 
Trail on the heavens. ISTow through the misty light 

Float on yon lofty dome the golden globes 
Which men call stars. What are they, love, say you ? 
Isles of the blest, where wings of the rainbow line 
Furl and unfurl throughout the eternal years 
To the grand music of the rushing spheres? 
Live they and love as we? Care they to sip 
Love's honey-dew from off a crimson lip, 
As I from thine, fair Maude? I 'd deem their blisses 
Dear purchased by the loss of thy sweet kisses." 

The mountains slept in shadow. Maude's white hand 
Lay like a lily-bud in Arthur's. One soft band 
Of sun-hued hair in shining ripples broke 
From its bright fellows. Through the mighty oak 
Which waved above them swept a boding croak. 
"'T was but a raven," whispered Arthur low; 
Maude shivered, and her cheek grew white as snow. 
"Hast loved me only? Wilt thou love me ever? 
Will aught on earth thy soul from mine dissever?" 
She murmured breathlessly. lie answered, " Never ! 
Kever can aught unbind our plighted troth; 
Ton radiant stars be witness of my oath. 
But sa}', sweet Maude, if one as fair as thou 
' In earlier years had won my love's first vow. 
Would those soft hands their summer snows untwine, 
And, as from mountains, melt away from mine?" 



A VOICE FROM THE SOUTH. 45 

lie drew lier to his bosom. O'er lier face 
Swept the ricli crimson. "Lady, shall I trace 
Her portrait for' thee? O she was most fair — 
Scarce lower than God's holy angels are — 
Who won my bo}ish love. Her eyes were blue 
As Ital3''s bright heaven; her lip's rich hue 
Shamed the red coral; and her hair — sweet! 
Only in thine I find an emblem meet. 
Like a wdiite lotus-lil}' shone tlie grace 
Of child-like. purity from the young face. 
She died — ah me! Dear Maude, she wanders now 
In those far fields where fadeless lilies blow. 
Time has brought healing, but a sweet perfume 
Rises her memory upward from the tomb. 
And that is all. Behold! I bend uiy knee. 
Heart, soul, I'm thine! Lady, I love but thee. 
And thou? I wait my doom." Again a croak 
Through the dark foliage weird and solemn broke. 
Paled the rich clouds of gold and purple dye 
From the gemmed portals of the western sky. 
And, trailing o'er those mighty plains afar, 
Broke from its azure setting one great star. 

"And now, wouldst hear my life's sad legend?" said 

Maude in a wliisper. Mute he bent his head. 

"'Tis the old story — I, a dreann- girl; 

He, proud and stately as a belted earl. 

And so I loved him — nay, the passion-dreams 

"Whose red life-pulses swept in crimson streams 

O'er my young life was not that angel spring 

AVhere the warm heart may bathe its drooping wing. 

'T was a sweet poison, firing soul and 1)rain; 

I drank and dreamed, and dreamed and drank again. 



46 A VOICE FROM THE SOUTH. 

On every golden mist and purple cloud, 
'Red-lipped and smiling, calm and angel-browed, 
I saw, at eve, his imaged likeness sliine. 
And, to my glamoured vision, all divine; 
AV^liile my own soul, with passion's stormy power, 
Soared forth to meet him at our trysting-hour. 
It was a sweet delirium, and its flame 
Had mounted higher; but the whirlwind came, 
Scattering the end)ers with its angry breath, 
Chilling my pulses like the clasp of death. 
'T was a long struggle, lie Avas false, and I 
Bent my proud head in dust, and prayed to die. 
Like a crushed re[)tile, writhing in its woe, 
I watched the summer blossoms come and go; 
But Death's pale angel to a mortal's prayer 
ISTe'er deigns to listen when he seems most fair. 
And still I lived; again my heart grew strong; 
Again its fountains burst to life in song. 
To hymn a love which never will decline, 
Eternity its only boundary-line." 



TO 



Deep in my lioart is a fairy isle 

(Fairy, else it would not be there), 

Lighting the gloom like a human smile, 
Laden with verdure and blossoms rare. 

Ivound it the twilight shadows sweep, 
Purple as grapes in their dusky glow; 

Kestled there, in enchanted sleep. 
Lie the sweet visions of "long ago." 



A VOICE FROM THE SOUTH. 47 

Yet, sweet girl, in tliis isle of mine, 
Sacred to claj-dreanis althongh it be, 

Love is building to-night a shrine. 
Where it will vigils keep for thee. 

Hopes like blossoms may bloom and die. 
Years like billows may come and go, 

Th.e hand of age on my brow be laid,. 

My head grow white with her mimic snow; 

Still there are dreams which cannot die. 

Memories on whose eternal light 
Never a semblance of shadow sluill lie, 

ISTever the brooding wing of night 



TO LOUIS KOSSUTH. 



Brave chief! a warm welcome to Tennessee hills! 
At the sound of thy voice, every s[)irit-harp thrills 
As if seraphs had swept o'er the glittering strings, 
And waked tliem afresh with the breath of their 

wings. 
Tlie tones of deep greeting swell up from each soul, 
And, like the strong occan-waves meeting thee, roll, 
Still chiming a welcome, warm, earnest, and free, 
To the hearts and the homes of our own Tennessee; 

In a far Alpine valley there falls a bright stream. 
Where the sun i^aints the spray with a beautiful 

gleam. 
And the pilgrim who bends 'neath its sdvery dew 
Sees irised around him the raiid)ow's rich hue. 



48 ji VOICE FROM THE SOUTH. 

Brave Kossuth! a Low is now arching thee o'er; 
It's tints circle round thee as never of yore; 
Hope's sunshine has traced it on Hungary's tears — 
A hright boAv of promise for on-coming years. 

if tliat 1)rave nation must l)end to the l)last 
Wliich the breath of the des[)ot on freedom has cast, 
Remembrance of thee, who, with patriot hand, 
Cast thy heart on the fanes of thy own fatherland, 
Will stamp, e'en in bondage, forever in ilame 
On Hungarian hearts thy immortalized name! 
But yet from its ashes the s}iirit of erst 
The chain of ignoble oppression will burst. 
The links drop apart which the despot has bound, 
And the last hold of tyranny fall to the ground. 

Bright star! whose clear ray gleams from Hungary's 

sky ; 
Brave chief! whose proud gaze is e'er flashing on 

high ; 
For the night which has spread thy loved land with 

its pall, 
A morning of glory shall rise to thy call. 
And, till that bright sunshine all Hungary tills. 
Here 's a warm, glowing welcome amid our wild hills; 
A welcome, a w^elcome, deep, fervid, and free. 
To the hearts and the honves of our own Tennessee! 






A VOICE FROM THE SOUTH. 49 

A MESSAGE. 



Arise from tli y sackcloth and ashes, 

O soul, rohod in sorrow so long! 
Go garner in seas(jn thy harvest; 

Glean sheaves in the bright land of song. 

For hearken! a message I bring yon 
From the land of the laurel and bay; 

Her child — you were "born in the purple" — 
Why far from her courts do you stray? 

You have wasted in feasting your substance, 
And poured out your treasure like wine; 

You have toiled for your bread among aliens, 
And fed upon husks' with the swine. 

Come back, for a welcome awaits you. 

Poor prodigal child that you are; 
Your motlierland's heart will infold you, 

Y^our motherland's gates are ajar. 

On her lips still are brooding the kisses 

Which brightened your childhood's dead iNTay; 

Go draw strength anew from their sweetness, 
And labor "while yet it is day." 

For the shadows are lengthening behind thee, 

The banners of sunset unfold 
On the tideless and billowless ocean 

Thoir glory of ci"imson and gold. 
4 



50 .1 VOICE FROM Till': SOUTH. 

And as in the heart of tlio marble 

An angel lay hidden away 
Till the hand of the sculptor released it 

And opened the portals of day, 

So, folded in mountain and forest, 

In slnmbers enchanted and deep, 
Till the fairy-prince comes to arouse tliem. 

Thought-angels invisible sleep. 

poet! this message I bring you: 

Go forth to tlie mountain and dell; 
When you loose the chained songs from their prison, 

You will gather the laurel as well. 



ALMA VERE. 



Stran(5ELY gifted, strangely gifted 

Child of genius, Alma Vere, 
How life's rainbow-hues have shifted 

Since our pathways lay a.-near! 
Thrice the forest-leaves have drifted 

From the hill-sides brown and sear. 
Since the heav}- clouds were lifted 

From thy spirit, Alma A^ere. 

Sad and weary, sad and weary, 
Child of sorrow. Alma Vere, 

Gazest thou from casements di'oary 
On a dark and sullen mere; 



A VOICE FROM THE SOUTH. 51 

And there is a mournful queiy 

And a wild, despairing fear 
In thy eyes, fettered Peri, 

In thy heart, sweet Alma Vere. 

Beautiful the uuisic sweeping 

'j^eath those turrets. Alma Vere, 
Soft the loving murmurs creeping 

Upward only for thy ear; 
But low sounds of stifled weeping, 

Which remorse alone may hear. 
Are within thy chamber keeping 

Sorrow's vigils, Alma Vere. 

Fallen ever, fallen ever, 

From thy state, proud Alma Vere, 
Weep till thy worn heart-strings sever — 

Who is there to soothe or hear? 
Those arched gate-ways are forever 

Closed on thee, lost Alma Vere! 

Early shrouded, early shrouded, 

Unforgiven Alma Vere, 
May's sweet sky is thickly clouded, 

As thou sleepest on thy bier; 
Closer still the mists were crowded, 

When, amid the leaflets sear, 
Thy forsaken lord was shrouded, 

Far from thee, Alma Vere! 



52 A VOICE FROM THE SOUTH. 



BACK AGAIN. 



Back again ! 
A short surcease of sorrow, and then 
Back I drifted to life and pain, 
And the pangs that were ahnost death were vain. 

I had thought that all was over, 
That with upturned rigid face I lay 
Under a mound of grass-grown clay, 

Starred with daisies and clover. 

Was it a dream? or was I dead? 
For the birds were singing overhead; 
I heard the drowsy hum of the bees, 
Flitting amid the blossoming trees; 
My ears were filled with a murmurous sound, 
Like the ripple of water under-ground; 
The song of the mighty swaying pines 
Drifted earthward through tangled" vines. 
And the air was rich with the spicy breath 
Of the sweet-brier. Ah! it was not death; 
It was but a strange, prescient dream, 
Swift as the lightning's fiery gleam. 
Cleft the night of my visions; then 
Shuddering heart and thrilling brain 
Took up the burden of life again. 

I had heard the plash of the waves on the shore 

Of the "Great Unseen," 
And caught a glimpse of its light before 

The irates^ were closed. With an aniruish keen 



A VOICE FROM THE SOUTH. 53 

Like a half-drowiicd wretch brought l)ack to life, 

Its toil and strife; 

With a famished heart and hungry eyes, 

I left that vision of Paradise; 

And from afiir, 

Through the "gates ajar," 
Floated a voice: " Fast sinks the sun — 
Night Cometh when thy work is done, 
Then shalt thou rest; and until then, 

Go back again ; 
Whether thy path bo o'er desert sands 

Or in ' summer lands,' 
Thy fate is safe in His hands. 
In His wise and merciful hands!" 



"POETA NASCITUR, NON FIT." 



Never a truer thought. 

In the grand old Latin tongue, 
In past or in present age, 

From the lip of man has rung. 

Virgil and Homer wore Ijards, 
"Born in thepurple" of old, 
And few in this ''latter day"' 
Are worthy their scepter to hold 

Few can unlock the door 
Barring the treasures away 

From hands that are only flesh. 
From souls that arc oidv clav; 



54 A VOICE FROM THE SOUTH. 

Can soar through the reahiis of space, 
Crying "Open sesame" there; 

Bringing back to the dull, cold earth 
The treasures of upper air. 

So I throw the gauntlet down, 

In this rough-hewn, careless rhyme, 

In hehalf of the beautiful strain 
Of the bards of the olden time. 



THE APPEAL. 



'Tis twilight to the world, but to my soid 

'T is midnight darkness. Thou hast quenched the 

light 
Which cast a halo o'er it, and hast flung 
Love's burning incense from its holy shrine. 
Thy brow is still as radiant as when 
It paled and crimsoned with a nobler dream. 
And not one shadow from thy perjured soul 
Has stolen upward to those calm and still 
Yet speaking features. 

Herculanoum-like, 
They 're shrouded in the ashes of their truth. 
mocker with the bay-wrq^th on thy brow, 
Turn, turn its glory from me, ere m_y soul 
Is incarnated madness; ere each pulse, 
Borne on the billowy swell of passion, heaves! 
O thou art pitiless! yet, by the hours 
Once ah so doul)ly blessed in thy love. 
By tile proud brow now bended to tbu dust. 



A VOICE FROM THE SOUTH. 55 

And by the lite-time shadow resting there, 
I pray thee hear me! 

'T is our honr of trj'st; 
And, in the moments hallowed by its sweet 
And holy influence, of erst I sent 
My soul to hold communion with thine own. 

O! once thou saidst our love was charactered 
In bright star-letters on the firmament 
Which bends above us, and that we would meet 
To breathe our vows on every purple cloud 
And golden mist tliat veiled the setting sun. 
Xow where art thou? M}' spirit wanders lone 
Upon a vast Sahara, with no sound 
To break the awful solitude. Thy songs 
Flow forth from thy grand spirit like a gift 
From Time nnto Fternity, and for 
Each one another burning gem is wreathed 
In the bright coronal which binds thy brow. 
But O! I clasped them to my soul before 
The world had maddened o'er their lofty swell, 
And they were angels to it, beautiful 
And holy angels; and, child-like, it played 
With their soft plumage till it fell asleep, 
R()l)cd in their beauty. Now with every morn 
I weep to find tliem gone, for, one by cuie. 
The world has claimed them. 

The\' are mine no more, 
As thou art mine no more; but I am thine, 
And thine forever. TluMi canst not destroy 
The .vo/// that links itself with thine in all 
Its dreamy wanderings, though thou mayst strike 
It down to the cold earth, and leave it there, 



56 A VOICE FROM THE SOUTH. 

And hold thy way amid tlie shining hosts 
AVhich star Elysium; yet it still will rise, 
And hlend with thine, as shadows hlend upon 
The wave's blue bosom, with a soft embrace. 



THE ANSWER 



Thou hast called me, beloved, 

Wooed my soul to thy side, 
And with its wild sobs 

My lone heart has replied. 
Were the last pulses quivering 

Which make my whole frame 
All sentient with woe, 

They would rouse at thy name; 
Then, e'er their fierce throbbings 

Forever grew still. 
One sweet dream of thee 

My deep spirit would fill. 
And, exultingly clasping 

That dream yet unspoken, 
I would close my dim eyes 

In a slumber unbroken. 

Though Hope, the bright sil)yl 

Of happier hours, 
Has lain down to die 

Amid summer's sweet flowers. 
On life's dearest shrine 

Burns a pure, deathless light, 
And Love sings an anthem 

Before it to-niirht. 



A VOICE FROM THE SOUTH. 57 

Thougli a gulf dark as niidnigbt 

Has severed our ftites, 
Our spirits will cross it 

At Eden's blest gates, 
And then, with a transport 

No pencil may trace, 
Will blend their two lives 

In one burning embrace. 

One! one! O forever 

What rapture 'twill be 
To know that my soul 

Is embodied in thee; 
And to think that as blossoms 

Breathe out their perfume, 
So my heart has exhaled 

Into thine all its bloom; 
While each beautiful thought, , 

Like a world-wearied dove, 
Folds up its soft wino- 

In thy bosom of love, 
And, far from the tempest 

And storm-clouded sky, 
Sleeps safe in its haven. 

And sheltered for aye! 

As the star-rays, in falling; 

Blend into one gleam. 
So my wild thoughts of thee 

Form one beautiful di-eam; 
And, earth-bound no longer. 

My soul has unfurled 
Its wing in a fiurer 

And fairy-like world. 



58 A vowi^ phom the sovth. 

Wild, wild as an Arab, 

It wanders as free 
Over life's sandy desert, 

A pilgrim to thee. 
As the devotee bends 

To a long-hallowed shrine, 
So my spirit has kn'elt 

At its Mecca, in thine. 

My dear spirit-lover! 

True mate of my soltl! 
The tones of farewell 

Throngh my heart sadly roll; 
And, with every deep note 

Of that funeral-hymn, 
The lights on life's altar 

Grow misty and dim. 
Farewell! O farewell! 

Their last radiance falls 
On a dark, murky fonntain 

And imageless walls. 
We are parted! O never 

This lone heart of mine 
In the soft, holy twilight 

May throb against thine; 
But the blue halls of glory, 

The star-worlds above. 
Shall part their gold portals 

To bless our deep love! 



A VOICE FROM THE SOUTK 59 

TOIL. 

])UTY is stern. Be strong, weak heart, and lay 

Aside weak dreams. There's poesy in toih 
Pure as the breath of violet-banks in May 

Is such dear sacrifice. Some lives are royal, 
Thougli crowned with thorns. Those who with 
lirm-set lips 

Put down tlie sweet, and drain the bitter cup 
Unto the dregs, are kings. Such deeds eclipse 

The proudest which earth's lieroes number up. 
Born to the purple they, auroral light 

Haloes them round. Battling with fate and ill, 
Firm and defiant, hand to hand they fight; 

Princes they are — ■tliougli fettered, princes still. 

Yet, there are hours when the relentless voice 

Seems like a far-off whisper, and the brain 
Grows rich with weird, bright fancies. Had they 
choice, 

Chainless and free would rise their matin strain, 
Like Morning springing from the clasp of Night — 
Golden-haired Morning, veiled with rosy light. 

task lilve that of Sisyphus, to turn 
From sunny tropics to those frozen heights 

On whose bleak crests no poet-altars burn. 
To crown with glory dreary arctic nights! 

Sweet dreams, adieu! back, back again to gyves 
And prison-cell. Rebellious fingers, rest. 

Earth has no flowers to wreathe some barren lives; 
To some she yields but bitter draughts at best. 

So bear tb}' cross that, when thou put'st it (h)\^'n, 

Eternit}' ma}' hold tliee fn'th a crown. 



60 A VOICE FROM THE SOUTH. 

LINES ON THE DEATH OF CRITTENDEN. 



The flush of a tropical dime 

Still lingered on Cuba's clear sky, 
When a band, yet in manhood's bright prime, 

Were led forth like traitors to die. 
]N"o quiver on lips which had learned 

To press back each feeling that rose 
Told of hopes in their bosoms inurned, 

Or that this was their drama's sad close. 

They bade the proud chief of that band 

Kneel low when the death-volley came, 
And, bowed on that sun -guarded strand, 

Pour out his liigh spirit of flame. 
Deep and haughty arose the iirm tone, 

Untouched by the breathing of woo: 
"I bow to high Heaven alone, 

And ne'er turn my back on a foe." 

Brave chief! though with shadowy fold, 

The death-mist has veiled thy proud eye, 
And that spirit so daring of old 

Has flown to the star-jeweled sky, 
Still in memor3''s vaults swells thy t(^ne. 

With a calm and a musical flow: 
"I bow to high Heaven alone, 

And ne'er turn my back on a foe." 



A VOICE FROM THE SOUTH. Gl 

SIBYL LEE. 



Have 3-011 ever seen an angel 

Which on earth liad stopped to rest? 
We have one witli hidden pinions, 

In our cottage in the West. 
Like a ripple in the sunshine 

Floating onward o'er the sea, 
Moveth she, our "dove-eyed darling," 

Oiw child-angel, Sibyl Lee. 

I liave often heard them whisper 

That she was too bright for earth, 
That tlie spring-time would not find her 

Lingering by our hund)le hearth. 
Now it is the sweet midsummer, 

O how lonely I will be 
W^hen she goes to join the angels! 

Our child-angel, Sibyl Lee. 

The strength of lofty womanhood 

Gleams in her radiant eyes, 
Whence her soul is ever looking 

Upward, upward to the skies. 
Soon its wings w-ill be unfolded 

Where the holy angels be, 
When she leaves us, our bright darling, 

Our child-angel, Sibyl Lee. 

Oft her cheek is strangely crimsoned 
With a, brilliant hectic glow, 

Burning like a funeral taper. 
Or a rose-leaf in the snow; 



G2 A VOICE FROM THE SOUTH. 

And then she rests her forehead 
Softly, calmly on my knee — 

Must she die? our "dove-eyed darling," 
Our child-angel, Sibyl Lee. 

Often, when I have infolded her 

Within my warm embrace, 
A look of saddened meaning 

Resteth on her gentle face, 
Grieveth she to think, in going. 

Of how lonely I will be, 
Missing her, our "dove-eyed darling," 

Our child-angel, Sibyl Lee? 

May death's holy angel softly 

Rock her on his breast to sleep! 
Rack to God again I give her. 

Vainly striving not to weep; 
And He only knows how lonely 

Xext midsummer I shall be, 
When He takes our "dove-eyed darling," 

Our child-angel, Sibyl Lee. 

I give her in her childhood. 

Yet unknowing pain or care, 
I give her in such innocence 

As angel brows may wear; 
I give her in her beauty. 

Heavenly Father, unto thee; 
Guard, O guard our "dove-eyed darling," 

Our child-angel, Sibyl Lee! 



A VOICE FROM THE SOUTH. 63 

TO H. R. L. 



O! there are thoughts which sleep within the soul 
Like flower-perfume upon the breezeless breast 
Of a soft summer eve, and there are dreams 
Whose glorious beauty best may shadow forth 
Elysium and its angels. Such are mine 
Amid this purple twilight. It may be 
That on some starry pinion floated down 
From those gold gates the gentle visions which 
Count each heart-throb to-night. Ah, be it so! 
Aidenn ne'er sent its spirits to imband 
A nobler brow than thine. I dream of thee 
Beneath this holy starlight — -waking dreams. 
Would that they might unlink the tangled chain 
From Destiny's pale fingers, and unveil 
The shadowy future, and, in language wild 
As their own restless pulses, read the page! 

Bright as the dreams which image forth thy fate 

Be the reality! I have no word 

Too beautiful in which to breathe a prayer 

For thee and thy bright future. Dim and strange 

Are the winged thoughts which flutter at the gate 

Of the soul's Delphian temple. 

O! they ne'er 
May bear their glory with them from the shrine 
Wliere mystic lamps, like Persia's fabled fires, 
Burn with a deathless lio^ht. 



64 A VOICE FROM THE SOUTH. 

But thy [)roud brow 
ISTeecls no worcl-corontil. The wild star-soul 
Which gleams out calmly from thy radiant eyes 
Will crown itself \\\\\\ glory, aud the heart 
Whose hidden pulses thrill with wayward dreams 
Will calm its restlessness, nnlulled by aught 
Of earthly music, or of earthly spells. 



ALLEN'S LETTER 



I'sE sendin' a letter, dear Fannie, and Lou, 
And Annie, to tell you what Allie'can do. 
There would be a great lot if I only could write, 
But I have to get mamma — she's lazy to-night. 
She's just "puttin' on airs,"' all atween you an' I, 
'Cause she wears an old tie-back, and's ever so high, 
And able to spank me whenever I cry. 

The kitties were cunnin', an' sweet as could be, 
My mamma says cdmost as roguish as me; 
And the doll, and the bib — but she put 'em away — 
Old cross ling! she's always a wantin' her way! 
Never mind, for I fink I shall walk before long — 
I can stand on my feet, and they feel pretty strong; 
And when she "goes a visitin' " then she will see, 
'Less she takes me along, just how "cute" I can be 
At iindin' her out; for the doll is my oicn, 
And the kitties, and bib — she must lot 'em alone. 

Allie W. 

Her + mark. 



A VOICE FROM THE SOUTH. 65 

ISADORE. 



Friend of a distant shore, 

Sweet Isadore, 
To tliee my spirit warms; 
How I would stretch my arms, 
And clasp thee to my bosom, Isadore! 
Bnt never, never more 
Shall I clasp thee to my bosom, Isadore. 

Love came thy peace to mar; 

And thou, my star, 
Grew'st paler day by day, 
INIourning one far away — 
Thus hast thou perished, Isadore. 
A Southern ocean's roar 
Is hymning thy lone requiem, Isadore. 

I meet thee in my dreams — 
The haunted streams 
Give back thy pale, sweet cheek, 
Thy eyes — thus in my sleep 
I clasp thee to my bosom, Isadore; 
But on earth I never more 
Sliall clasp thee to ni}' bosom, Isadore. 

Thy ringlets floating down, 

Goldenl}' brown. 
Sweep now my cheek — thou 'rt here; 
I feel thee ever near; 

Thy presence breathes around me, Isadore; 
Yet never, never more 
Shall I clasp thee to my bosom, Isadore. 



Q6 A VOICE FROM THE SOUTH. 

Isadore ! my Isadore ! 

M}' heart-strings pour 
A wail from out their cell 
For thee, loved, loved so well, 
Friend of my bosom, Isadore. 
Woe! woe! for never more 
Shall I clasp thee to my bosom, Isadore! 

Thou wast too fair, my dove. 

For aught but love; 
And like the breath of flowers. 
In the sunlit summer hours, 
Thy soul exhaled, sweet Isadore. 

1 shall never clasp thee more 

To my sad and earnest bosom, Isadore. 



THE ANODYNE 



To thee, to thee I drink! 

But one more link 

Of earth's dull chain is now to sever; 

Then 0! forever 

My soul will stray with thine 

Where star-lamps shine 

And altars blaze with incense. Shall I shrink? 

To thee I drink! 

Thy lips have touched the cup. 

Now sparkling up 

With ruby liquid — nay, I dare not weep. • 

It brought thee sleep. 



A VOICE FROM THE SOUTH. 07 

To thee, to thee, iny own! 
Thy every tone 
Makes earthly music dumb. 
I come, I come! 

This was my fitting gift: 

To thee 1 lift 

The fever-calming draught again, 

Ere yet the stain 

Of thy dear li]:« grows dim 

Upon the rim. 

Here's to thee, love! My soul with that wild kiss 

Fades into bliss. 



THE DEATH OF THE YEAR. 



The year is dying. From the forest aisles 
Rise wailing cries, as the strong breezes sweep 
And eddy up the leaves, all dried and sear 
With winter's breath. O! once they wildly sung 
His coronation anthem; nowthey sound 
His funeral knell. With a low, solemn moan 
The waves throb on the shore, as if they too 
Wept by the death-couch of the passing year. 
The starlight's holy gleams rest on the deep, 
Blue world of waters, which heaves lieavy sobs 
Upon the silver sands, like fingers white 
Soothing the brow of death ; and, strange and pale, 
The moonbeams struggle downward to the earth, 
And join the train of nnnirners. One by one 
The seconds plunge into I'^tcrnity. 



68 A VOICE FROM THE SOUTH. 

The 3'ear is dying, and from ever}' heart 

Rises his funeral knelL Who, on this earth, 

Has not beheld the brightening of some dream 

Into reality, and wept above 

Some shivered vision, since with regal step ^ 

He came among us to his shadowy throne? 

From the star-coronal of many a life 

Its dearest gems have fallen, and onr hopes 

Have bloomed and withered on his breast, and now 

We watch him dying. One small spot of earth 

Ma}^ form a resting-place for man to pass 

Into his dreamless slumber; but the year. 

Flung by Eternity npon Time's sands; 

Claims God's broad universe as his death-couch. 

And for his sepulcher the mighty past — 

The charnel-house of other buried years. 

O ! ere upon tlie pages of the hours 

Which chronicle the pulse-beats of his frame 

The last, last line is wu'itten, we would turn 

And read anew the record. Once it was 

An undimmed page, as heaven's own crystal pure; 

But now the passion-breezes of our souls 

Have swept their cloud-drifts o'er it, and we ne'er 

May change the tracery. Deeds of faith and love 

Lie side by side with Crime's dark annals, and 

The bridal-wreath lies half within the grave. 

Those hours have folded up their starry wings 

On Memory's briglit heaven, and the pen 

Of the recording angel has transferred 

To the dread archives of Intinity 

All that is written there in words of flame. 



A VOICE FROM THE SOUTH. 60 

The winds and waves have hnshed their niournrul 

wail; 
Like a weird spirit-army, clouds infold 
The amethystine corridors above, 
And, save a faint, low sigh of worn-out grief, 
No sound breaks on the heavy silence, pressed 
In hearse-like folds close down to every heart; 
For INIidnight's pulse is beating strong and high, 
And now its throbs are stilled — the year is dead! 
The year is dead; but there are some thoughts 
Too wildly beautiful with him to die! 
They lie like oases amid the past, 
To wdiich our souls upon their dream-wings float, 
When life's mad fever-pulses swiftly leap, 
And gather wreaths of amaranth to crown 
Themselves in future hours. When clouds o'erswcep 
Hope's radiant concave, they may ever turn, 
And fold themselves within the rich perfume 
Of fadeless memories, thoughts as wild and pure 
As e'er within Elysium's crystal gates 
Furled their soft plumage. 

The old 3^ear is dead; 
But from the mountain-ranges which lie heaped 
In far Eternity, with Titan tread, 
Another comes to meet us. On its breast 
Hours crowned with yew and myrtle calmly sleep, 
And, one by one, from bondage loosed, they flee 
And melt, like snow-flakes, in Time's heaving wave. 

What on their viewless pinions they may bear 

Of l)liss or agon}', we may not know; 

Nor would we asl: to know; for Faith's l)ri:;-ht star 



70 A VOICE FROM TIIE SOUTH. 

Gleams clear upon the waters, like a ray 
From paradise. 

We would not ask, O God, 
That Love and Happiness alone should bind 
Their garlands for our foreheads; nor that dreams 
Which gleam like gold-winged angels in the strange, 
Deep chambers of our souls may ever there 
Wave their soft pinions; and we would not ask 
That the bright star-tiara which entwines 
Our nation's brow may Inirn forever on 
In deathless splendor; nor that harps whose tone 
Seems a faint echo of the blended strains 
By seraphs poured before Thy hoi}' throne. 
Like burning incense, should not be fresh strung 
By angel-fingers; but if Sorrow waves 
Her sable plumes above us, may we look 
Through the dark folds to the bright stars beyond 
With trust and faith! and if the giant minds 
Which guard Columbia's altars pass away, 
O may the mantle of their greatness fall 
Upon some kindred spirit! If the ba3's 
Which wreathe the forelieads of our minstrel band 
Must be replaced by seraph-braided crowns, 
Green with immortal verdure, in the dim 
And dreamy twilight, may their spirits float 
Around us, holy watchers, wooing ours 
From earthly visions to where Time is one 
Eternal year, crowned with unfading flowers! 



.1 VOICE FROM THE SOUTH. 71 

ONE SONG MORE. 



One song more! 
Then bid thy heart-strung kite 
To all mortal touch be mute, 

Evermore, 

Evermore; 
N'ever wake the strings again 
To one wildly soaring strain, 
To one tone of bliss or pain; 
Yet, O ere 'tis shadowed o'er 
With the yew-tree's awful lore. 

One song more! 

One song more — 
Then tear the laurel-band 
From the brow it erst has spanned; 

Now no more, 

Now no more 
Blooms its glorious counterpart 
In the temples of thy heart, 
Glory-circled though thou art; 
Yet, ere from a phantom shore 
Thy wild requiem may pour. 

One song more! 

One song more — 
Then let thy myrtle-braid 
In a sepulcher be laid, 

Evermore, 

Ev^ermore; 



72 A VOICE FROM THE SOUTH. 

Letit crown a brow more fair; 
Amid brighter waves of hair 
Let it seek a sunny lair, 
l^et, O ere the leaves which bore 
Love's strange seal are shadowed o'er, 
One song more ! 

One song more, 
O'er Hope's unlettered tomb, 
Rising white amid the gloom, 

Evermore, 

Evermore; 
Yet, lift not the heavy lashes, 
Folded on her cheek of ashes. 
Where no living sunlight Hashes, 
But, above the granite hoar. 
Let thy spirit sob and pour 

One song more ! 

One song more. 
For Life's spring-time fountains dried, 
For the dying wail of Pride, 

On Time's shore, 

On Time's shore; 
But when one song is done 
Let another be begun — 
Till Time's arches blend in one 
On the far eternal shore. 
Let thy throbbing spirit pour 

One son a- more! 



A VOICE FROM THE SOUTH. 73 

JEWELS FOR LETHE. 



Jewels for Lethe! Genii, bring the key — 

The heart's the casket where those jewels be. 

The bright-winged angel, which in purple state 

Sat Avith furled pinions singing at the gate, 

Has drawn the bolts and sought a prouder throne, 

Leaving the rich insignia tliere alone. 

The heart's crown-jewels! fling tlieni side by su.e 

In the calm crystal of the Lethean tide! 

Jewels for Lethe! Bring the brightest first 
(Love's ruby coronet) — in times of erst 
It was the fitting crown for Beauty's brow. 
An emblem meet for knighthood's holiest vow 
And fearless worship; now who may dare 
Unscathed its wreath of flashing light to wear? 
Where can it find a softer, calmer grave? 
cast it unpolluted in the wave! 

Jewels for Lethe! Ha! a laurel-wreath 

Carved out from emeralds: but close beneath 

Lie jagged thorns — the heavy golden clasp 

Is a coiled serpent holding in its grasp 

A wounded dove; poor bird! how like to thine 

Their fate who round their fair young temples twine 

That wizard-circlet — be it buried deep 

Where, charmed to silence, Lethe's waters sleep! 

Jewels for Lethe! Jewels from the heart! 

Why, when its regal visions all depart, 

Should the regalia linger? Well it were 

They ne'er had burned in princely splendor there. 



74 A VOICti PROM THE SOUTH. 

Give the dark waters yet another gem, 
Brightest but one in Hfe's star-diadeni: 
When Love and Gh)ry sleep beneath the tide, 
Faith, too, should veil its radiance by their side! 

Jewels for Lethe ! Ah! no more there be; 
Upon the empty casket turn the key, 
And if its guardian angels e'er come down. 
They must bring jewels for another crown, 
And in Elysium forge another key. 
This, Lethe, is an offering to thee: 
Shroud Love and Faith and Fame beneath thy flow- 
What are they all but syiionyms for woe? 



THE MOOR-LAND GRAVE. 



"Desolate! desolate!" O'er the dark moor, 

Half stifled by driving rain, 
Mid sobs that are growing fewer 

And weaker, comes the sad plain, 

The pitiful, bitter plain. 

Through the sleet and beating rain. 
"Desolate! desolate!" Who may it be 
On the broad, dark moor that o'erlooks the sea? 

The moor is lonely, and wild, and brown; 

It lies like a heavy frown 

Where the northward hills slant steeply down, 

And it overlooks the sea; 
And in the twilight gray and dim 
A raven croaks on the wind-swept limb 

Of a weird, knarled cypress-tree. 



A VOICE FROM THE SOUTH. 75 

Lady! lady! what doest thou 
Out on this desolate moor-land now? 
What is that fading sail to thee, 
Which slowly drifts o'er the stormy sea? 

The garments which rohe thee are rich and rare, 
Great rubies shine in th}' Ethiop hair, 
And glow like blood on thy bosom fair. 
Still, through the lulls of the stormy rain 
And hoarse, deep roar of the frantic main, 
Comes a pitiful, bitter tone; 
Half a sob, and a stiHed moan — 
"Desolate! desolate!" Ghostly and white 
Stream thy robes on the coming night. 
And the rushing waves a death-march beat, 
And the snow is drifting thy winding-sheet. 

Blanche! Blanche! but a year agone 

(A year! it has struggled sadly on), 
INIoaned the winds o'er the heather drear, 
Drifted the snow as if building a bier. 
Froze the sleet in each raven curl 
Swept from thy brow, O maniac girl! 
Then as now through the beating rain 
Came the pitiful, bitter plain. 
Like the wild upheave of a merciless pain. 

"Allen! Allen! can there be 

Aught on the earth as dear to me 

As the love we pledged beneath May's blue skies 

On the banks of lier violet paradise? 

Allen, here is our faith's sweet token — 

A broken rinc;, for a true heart broken; 



76 A VOICE FROM THE SOUTH. ■ 

My hand is sold, but my soul is ffee-^ 
I'd stiHe its throbs were it false to thee. 
See in yon castle the red lights glow 
Like meteors glancing to and fro; 
Bend from the heights of thy silence down, 
Sweep from thy forehead the haughty frown- 
So — Allen — so — on thy breast — now speak 
Ere the hunters come — it is I they seek. 
jSTow in yon hall's ancestral pride 
The baron waits his unwilling bride; 
Forgive" — but his wild, stern gesture smote 
The very sobs which had swelled in her throat. 
"If all that of woman bear the name 
Had half thy art or thy falsehood's shame, 
I'd never bend to such shrine again. 
Thou false of faith, and thou light of heart. 
Hence! from presence and thought depart!" 

Whirled the sleet and the driving rain, 
And a ship went out o'er the stormy main 
With a form she will never see again. 

Moons like blossoms have bloomed and died, 
Or paled like stars at the morning-tide; 
The winds are swooping like birds of prey 
Over the moor in the twilight gray; 
Again the sleet and the driving rain 
Smother a weak and wailing plain: 
"Desolate! desolate !" Blanche — it is she. 
On the wild, dark moor that o'erlooks the sea 
A bier is builded; the snowy sheet 
Presses a heart which has ceased to beat. 



A VOICE FROM THE SOUTH. 77 

Wail, O wiutls, o'er the solemn moor! 

Moan, O waves, on the night-robed shore! , 

By sleet, and rain, and the surges dread, 

Alone shall the burial-rites be read! 

Bury her, j^e, on the moor-land wide — 

Youns: Allen's love, and the baron's bride. 



THE WORD AND NAME. 



Traced on my heart's clasped pages is a word, 
Whose holiest breathing thou alone hast heard; 
An angel guards it night and day for thee — 
Thou only of all mortals hast the kc}'. 
And, read it when thou wilt, the "sea of light" 
Around the throne can scarcely glow more bright. 
It is a blossom born beyond the sky, 
The fadeless flower of vast eternity. 
An echo of the angel songs above — 
That word is love! 

Upon my heart in characters of flame, 
By Eros written, tliou may'st read a name; 
And scarce amid the valleys of the blest 
Could angel-music lull my soul to rest. 
If when Elysium called her mighty roll. 
Thine did not echo from the shining scroll. 
Made dearer by the frosting touch of years, 
A star which lights a stormy sea of tears. 
Still gem-like burns it on its sacred shrine — 
That naiue is thine! ^ 



78 A VOICE FROM THE SOUTH. 

And DOW, dear love, my every girlislj dream 
Of erst has channeled out a deeper stream, 
Which, blending all in one unfathomed sea, 
Forever flows in heaving tides to thee; 
And the bright banners which to-night unroll 
Their strange and dreamy glory in my soul, 
Regal as purple midnight's starry eyes, 
liich as the blue which arches Southern skies. 
On their broad fokls bear traced this single line- 
B\)rever thine! 



A BREAM. 



My heart is weary, sweet love of mine, 

In its beautiful Southern home, 
And my thoughts are oft' where the light-winged 
l)irds 

O'er tropical waters roam. 

Like a sunset vision, Bermuda's isle 

Looms out on the dreamy air, 
And brighter than all gleams a proud, pale lip 

And a wealth of raven hair. 

But the once red lip has a bitter scorn 

On its beautiful wreath im[>ressed. 
And that wild, dark eye on this drooping form 

INIay ne'er with aft'ection rest. 

The locks which sweep o'er that haughty brow, 
Like a plume from midnight's wing, 

Will blend no more with the auburn bands 
Which to these |)ale temples cling. 



A VOICE FROM THE SOUTH. 79 

So my heart is weaiy, love of mine! 

And I clasp m}' fingers tight; 
For the passion-lamps in my spirit shine, 

And dazzle my aching sight. 

And I turn away to the beautiful past, 

Ere my dream of life grew dim, 
AVhen my soul rose up with the morning-star, 

And chanted its matin hymn; 

When the twilight basked in a purple glow, 

Like grapes in their dusky bloom, 
And I caught a glimpse of immortal joy. 

In the depths of the midnight's gloom; 

And the sweet sleep-angel twined with my dreams 

Lips moist with a vintage divine, 
Till, my soul aglow 'neath his gleaming wings, 

I whispered, " Sweet love of mine, 

"Tliose songs which swell in my restless heart, 

Like the waves of a summer sea. 
When its bosom thrills to the South wind's kiss, 

O came not those songs from thee? 

"Was there not some spell in our trystiuij-hour 

Which lured each vision of thine 
To sleep in my soul till it wakened a song 

Akin, though but half as divine? 

"And say, if the mildew and blight of years 
Should wither our love's sweet flower, 

Will not the spirit of song return 
To build in thy own its bower?" 



80 A VOICE FROM THE SOUTH. 

Alas, too true I when the h^ve-dreaiu fled, 
And tliy brow grew dark and stern, 

I looked within for the bird of song, 
And found but a funeral urn, 

Alas, alas, for the dust-soiled plume 
AVhicli soared in the morning sky! 

Alas for the bird of the dreaming land, 
Struck dowii to tlie earth to die! 



THE BETRAYED. 



TiiEY are to be wedded to-morrow! 

I'll twine me a garland to-night — 
If tears from my eyes are o'erflowing, 

Thej'-'ll not make the roses less bright. 
I'll call to my cheek a rich flushing, 

The haughtiest hectic of pride; 
My eyes shall flash darker and brighter 

Than those of his beautiful bride. 

I will meet him with queenliest scorning, 

ISTor aught shall he read in my tone 
To tell that I miss the caresses, 

The love-words which once were my own. 
My fingers shall never once quiver 

Within his warm clasp as of old, 
For the eagle has stooped from liis aerie. 

Allured 1)V the o-leaminu' of ^j^o\{\. 



A VOICE FROM THE SOUTH. 81 

They are to be wedded to-morrow! 

Last even I saw liini pass by, 
But his lips never parted to greet me, 

I won not a glance from his eye. 
O'er my own burning orbs swept the lashes, 

Though veiled from the light by my hand, 
For I feared he would read in their language 

The feelings I could not command. 

O pride! keep thy haughtiest vigil. 

Thy fetters weave heavy and strong, 
For love in my spirit is twining 

A dreamy and passionate song. 
The iire of idolatrous worship 

Is leaping through each thrilling vein, 
My wild heart is panting and pining 

To throb beside his once again. 

They are to be wedded to-morrow! 

That morrow he never shall see; 
Though it spring from the east with rejoicing, 

It dawns not for him or for rae. 
My dagger shall drink to our meeting 

Ere midnight's dead watch shall have flown, 
And, while his heart's blood stains its gleaming, 

I'll bury it deep in my own. 

From the lips, whose proud curling last even 

First woke this red vision of death. 
My own, with a passionate clinging. 

Shall driidv up the last trembling breath. 
6 



A VOICE FROM THE SOUTH. 

The fixlse and true-hearted together, 
We'll go to the shadowy land 

Where the asphodel waveth forever — 
Nemesis, O nerve this weak hand! 

Na}', let them be wedded to-morrow! 

This spirit, unlinked from its bars, 
Ere then shall but love and forgive him, 

While floating above the bright stars. 
Ha! what a sharp pang in my bosom 

Half crushes the quivering breath! 
The life-tide my pale lip is staining — 

The dagger may rest in its sheath. 



"YOU DON'T LOVE HIM." 



"You do n't love him," fairy Inez, willful spirit that 

you are. 
Whose footfalls to your lily cheek the crimson roses 

bear ? 
Whose glance bows down the lashes that o'ersweep 

your flashing eye 
When it burns, in unfurled glory, like the stars on 

yonder sky? 
Let that brow, so lowly drooping 'neath each heavy 

raven braid 
That o'er your girlish forehead like a diadem is laid. 
Rest upon the jeweled fingers which now strive to 

veil, in vain, 
The flood of burning crimson that has lit your cheek 

asrain. 



A VOICE FROM THE SOUTH. 83 

Ah ! that face's proud uplifting, and the curled lip's 

bitter wreath, 
111 may image forth the feelings which lie hid their 

scorn beneath. 
Have the dreams of warm aft'ection from your bosom 

passed away? 
"You don't love him," darling Inez; those cruel 

words unsay. 

Do you ever think, sweet Inez, of one bright and 

sunny day. 
When we wandered forth to gather flowers upon 

the first of May? 
Girlhood's glowing dreams within the heart, its seal 

upon the brow 
Where the haughty pride of womanhood, tiara-like, 

rests now; 
While, as your snowy fingers lightly pressed each 

tiny bloom. 
And the crimson deepened on your cheek, you 

wished that it were June; 
For you knew, with coming summer, from a distant 

Southern land 
A wild young poet-dreamer, too, would seek his 

native strand; 
And as, with half-closed eyes, you sat within that 

twilight dim. 
You wove a garland of the flowers to treasure up 

for him. 
O have those golden memories with the moment 

passed away? 
Do you "love him," wayward darling? Do you 

"love hini," Inez, say? 



84 A VOICE FROM THE SOUTH. 

Summer came to 3'oi], sweet Inez, with its richer 

ghades of bloom, 
And the South wind gently kissed the sweet spring 

blossoms in their tomb; 
Then its breath stole through your ringlets with a 

soft and wooing tone. 
And yon wandered on the hill-sides, but you wan- 
dered not alone. 
The strange and star-like being whose coming you 

watched for long. 
The wild, erratic monarch of the haunted realm of 

song, 
Whose soul's Vesuvian-lires lit up the midnight of 

his eyes. 
Had whispered of his w^orship, half in words and 

half in sighs; 
lie had called to witness for his truth the stars which 

burned above. 
And then you promised, Inez, you would " try to 

learn to love.'' 
That summer with its glowing dreams has passed 

from earth away; 
Did you " learn to love him," Inez? Did you " learn 

to love him," say? 

Inez, do you still remember how amid the sunset glow 
From the western sky's bright portals gold-winged 

angels seemed to How 
Till the blue w^as bannered over with long streams 

of crimson light. 
Ere they folded up their pinions in the starlit halis 

of night? 



A VOICE FROM THE SOUTH. 85 

And your brow was hot with fever, and with each 

faint breath that came 
In the moanings of delirium you wildly called his 

name? 
He is bending now beside you, in his clasp your lin- 
gers thrill ; 
Ah! the heart's strange harp has spoken, though the 

parted lips arc still ; 
And 3'our head sinks on his bosom, like a birdling 

to its nest, 
And Love's low, dreamy whisperings are telling all 

the rest. 
Though the sunmier now has vanished, yet its 

promises may stay: 
Do yon love him, dearest Inez? Do you love him, 

darling, say? 



TO 



My spirit-mate, wild soars thy wing 

Up in the starr}' sky; 
The hues of even round thee cling, 

Thou of the radiant eye! 

Far, O far up amid the blue 

So high I shade my sight, 
My eyes all drooping with heart-dew, 

I watch thy fearless flight. 

This is in dream-land; with the day. 
Day's thoughts and fancies fleet. 

And loving forms around me stray. 
And lovino- tones I meet. 



86 A VOICE FROM THE SOUTH. 

But when I wake the visions fade, 

I miss thy clasping hand, 
I miss the tiower-wreath thon hast made — 

O take me to dream-land! 



HAVE I LOVED IN VAIN? 



My dreams were tilled with thy form to-night, 
With thy sad, sweet smile and thy chirk eye's light; 
I have gazed as those may caze alone 
Who love, and its dower of sorrow have known, 
For in sleep I knew, with a prescience strange. 
That the idol I shrined in my soul would change. 

say, is it thus Ave shall meet again? 
Speak, speak! speak! have I loved in vain? 

Shall we meet again as we met of old? 
W^ill not thy greeting be calm and cold? 
Thy fingers will slowly tliread thy hair 
With studied art, and will linger there; 
While my poor heart, like a prisoned bird, 
Is throbbing and thrilling at every word, 
And I know, I know I have loved in vain; 
As strangers meet we shall meet again. 

It is so! it is so! I know it well! 

There needs not a glance, not a word, to tell; 

The die is cast, and the Rubicon crossed; 

1 have staked my all on one throw, and lost. 
Enough! I have played for a noble prize; 
The winner smiles, but tlie loser dies. . 

As strangers meet we shall meet again; 
Farewell! farewell! I have loved in vain. 



A VOICE FROM THE SOUTH. 87 

THEY CALL THEE A POET. 



They call thee a poet, strange, thought-haiuited one. 
With hair like the midnight, and eye like the snn; 
They speak of thy mystic, thy glorious dower — 
Whence cometh thy scepter, and what is thy power? 
A desolate childhood has fostered wild dreams. 
And whirlwinds have swept o'er Life's summer-time 

streams, 
But borrow or Love, howe'er mighty they be. 
Could forge not such regal insignia for thee. 

They call thee a poet — why quiver thy lips? 

Thy eyelids seem drooping in Death's dark eclipse. 

Ah! once thy heart thrilled beneath Love's golden 

chain; 
It broke — is there aught that can. link it again? 
Dark rust-stains have soiled it, tears dimmed its 

bright hue — 
Go, twine that dead dream with a garland of yew. 
In an ideal world thou hast builded thy throne. 
Through the woes of the real thou walkest alone; 
Ir. eartii's proudest annals thou bearest a part — 
She has crowns for thy forehead, but naught for 

thy heart. 
What boots it to murmur? the bay-wreath is bright ; 
('ould the myrtle enshroud thee with holier light? 
Shall thy heart weakly moan like a dove for its mate? 
G.)! dream l)ut of fame, struggle not witli thy fate, 
For Faith's sunmier-heaven is clouded with fears. 
Leaving- room in thv soul but for curses and sneers. 



88 A VOICE FROM THE SOUTH. 

They call thee a poet — thy footsteps erelong 

Will sound not on earth, O wild monarch of song! 

Thy spirit's soft pinions will sweep the perfume 

From Elysium's valleys of odorous bloom, 

And the asphodel rest like Love's kiss on the brow 

Which, world-stained and throbbing, droops wearily 

now. 
On thy blue- veined temple a linger seems pressed — 
Death's fearful indorsement, his phantom-like crest; 
Proud gleams thy dark. eye 'neath the lashes which 

sweep 
Like shadows of midnight upon thy pale cheek, 
Where Azrael's rose-bud unfolds its red bloom, 
Making beautiful even the path to the tomb. 
There are smiles on thy lip, but a thorn in thy breast; 
Then go in thy glory, wild dreamer, to rest. 

They call thee a poet — right regally die! 
Death's beautiful ans^el in silence draws ni^h. 
Hadhe not walked so softly, perchance there mightbe 
In his message more terror than pleasure for thee; 
But he comes as a cloud on a bright summer day. 
Veils the soft golden sunlight, then passes away. 
In that shadow thou 'rt walking, it soon will pass by; 
Fold thy mantle around thee — right regally die! 



"MY FAIRY GIFT." 



My fairy godmother brought me a gift — 

A magical singing-bird, 
Won from its nest where the musical flow 

Of C^istalia's fountain is hoard. 



A VOICE FROM THE SOUTH. 89 

We wandered afar in enchanted lands, 

Till many a year swept l)y; 
Poor strolling minstrels, with scarce a crust, 

Or a cloak — my bird and I. 

Still we were blithe, for never a flower 

Burst forth, as we passed along, 
But from it some beautiful fairy sprung. 

With a greeting of kiss and song. 

It was so sweet to think that the flowers 

Were living, sentient things; 
That we never thought of the ichirlicind'' s rage, 

Or the brooding tempesfs wings. 

We sunk to sleep in the summer glow, 

Mid billows of golden grain; 
AVe woke afar from our fairy-land, 

Chilled by a wintry rain. 

Alas, alas for the dreams which fade! 

Cold in the twiliglit lies 
My fairy gift, with a human woe 

In its half-closed violet eyes. 

O sodden pinions, so gray and dank! 

Will you ever wave again ? 
Will I ever tlirill as in days of yore 

To my song-bird's mystical strain? 



90 .1 VOICE FROM THE SOUTH. 

WOMAN'S LOVE. 



A BROKEN heart, and a faded dream, 
And a withered life — be tins my theme. 

The heart was that of a maiden fair, 
With starry eyes and with soft brown hair; 

A poet-girl, with a soul as White 

And free from stain as Nevada's height. 

She strayed in a world of fairy bloom, 
Athirst for a draught of the sweet perfume 

Which rose like a cloud of incense up. 
With the South wind's kiss on each lily-cup. 

Alas the day! in a careless hour 

She gathered a beautiful poison-flower. 

She planted it deep in her heart; it grew. 
Fostered by Love's sweet honey-dew. 

Her soul was weak 'neath its purple glow, 
So she strayed no more where the lilies blow; 

A love-caged bird, with a folded wing, 

So drunk with bliss that she could not sing. 

Her hands were chained with the witching bands 
Woven by sunshine in "summer lands." 

Rose from the flower a stifling breath. 
Dank as the upas-blast of Heath. 



A VOICE FROM THE SOUTH. 91 

A witliered life, and a faded dream, 
And a broken heart — so ends my theme. 



PASSION-FLOWERS. 



I LAY asleep through the summer hours, 

In the shade of Love's sweet passion-flowers. 

They did not fade, though the air grew chill, 
And the maple-tops were ailame on the hill ; 

Though the forest-oak, like a monarch old, 
Encircled his brow witli a band of gold; 

And the sumachs in regal purple stood 
By the edge of the hectic-blushing wood. 

So I thought, as in dreams of bliss I lay. 

That their bloom and fragrance would last alway 

But at last I strayed from the fragrant shade 
AVhich Love's sweet angel in dreams had made; 

And again the maple-boughs are red. 
But my beautifiU passion-flowers are dead. 



_^_^«J^®:==^, 



---^^^§^^ 



92 A VOICE FROM THE SOUTH. 

"WHY SHOULD NOT I BE SORROWFUL?" 



Why slionld not I be sorrowful? 

The visions childhood brings, 
The dreams, the airy castles, 

The unsubstantial things, 
By me in my sad babyhood 

Were never often piled; 
I moved apart from all the rest 

A thoughtful, quiet child. 

Man}', tracing back the past, 

Sports and toys may best recall, 
But my first dim remembrance 

Is a coffin and a pall; 
Then sorrow slowly gathered. 

Till my heart was chilled and crushed, 
And each hope that gemmed the future 

Lay all writhing in the dust. 

Wh}^ should not 1 be sorrowful? 

I dare not lift the veil^ 
I smother in my bosom's depths 

The stricken, moaning wail; 
And ask this much unshrouded, 

And Life's leaves thus open thrown, 
That o'er the PavSt's dim pages 

I may dream and weep alone. 



.4 VOICE FROM THE SOUTH. 93 

TO W. K. B. 



O GIFTED poet! thy deep t^ong lias roused 
A thrill within ray hosom wild as that 
When the ^Eolian wires are gently swept 
By the soft breathings of the evening wind. 
Thoughts flutter in my spirit to and fro, 
And closely link themselves, and then fly forth 
A band unshadowed by the touch of woe. 
The tones which sympathy calls up within 
My soul still tremble \vith tlie weight of dew 
From the heart's fountain, and I cannot breathe 
Half of the strange, deep feelings thus inspired. 
O they may not be uttered — scarce a strain 
Can quiver up to whisper they are there! 

O if the broken tones of music wild 
Might gather up a burning glow of life 
From the high mountain of volcanic fire, 
The souVs Vesuvius, how it would pour out 
In earnest language its impassioned thanks! 

If the untaught, unworldly songs which gush 
Free from my spirit have called up a tone 
From the far past within a generous breast. 
They have fulfilled their destiu}'; I claim 
No nobler oftice for them on this earth. 
If they have wooed theeback to the bright days 
When life was beautiful as the clear sky 
Bent over an unclouded summer day, 
They've borne to thee a history of my own 
Unsorrowing hours, and forged a holy chain 
Of sym|)athetic feeling. 



94 A VOICE FROM THE SOUTH. 

I can look 
To the dark future with unshaded eye, 
And all unshrinking gaze; but my heart fails 
When I look back upon the paradise 
Of 3X)ung, bright dreams. Yet thou hast called them 

up 
In their old freshness. Where thy full, deep song 
Lingered above the past, my soul was held 
Spell-bound, as in a trance, and a wikl flow 
Of child-like tears baptized the picture fair — 
The full heart's superscription of its truth. 

We ne'er have met, and- yet I deeply feel 
That thou art true and noble, O the mind 
Will sketch itself a likeness of the forms 
Which thrill with kindred feelings to its own! 
Thus I have drawn a picture, and enshrined 
It in my heart with dear, familiar friends; 
And ever in my lonel}' hours, when Hope 
Withdraws her rainbow-arch from my life-sky, 
And leaves to clouds and darkness all its dome, 
Thy words shall be a star to gild that night. 
And guide me onward through the ghastly gloom. 
Where light shall bathe ray fevered brow again 
In a wild radiance, and forms as bright 
As ever strayed within the dreaming land 
Throng on the golden sands of Fancy's shore. 

Poet, farewell! I lay thy song amid 

The treasured gems of Memory's casket-home; 

And O in future yeai-s, when dim and cold 



A VOICE FROM THE SOUTH. 95 

Seem Hope's bright altars, it shall be a band, 

A talisman, to draw my thoughts again 

To happier hours, to '< Life'syoung morning dream ! " 

Poet, farewell! in this faint strain I breathe 
A heart-full blessing upon all thy life. 
And pray that sorrows may be never cast 
Cloud-like upon the sunlight of thy years! 



SAY, CAN THE POET LOSE HIS POWER? 



Say, can the poet lose his power? — the fire-winged 

thoughts grow still, 
And in a dreamless vacancy lie pale, and crushed, 

and chill? 
Like icebergs in the Northern main, which in deep 

silence float, 
The chords which span the soul give forth no more 

their soaring note? 
And pale and dusky iignrcs, with their forms but 

half defined. 
Glide like a ghostly army through the chaos of the 

mind? 
Can the Titan-[>iles of sorrow overshadow all the 

light. 
And a day of listless apath}^ succeed a moonless 

night? 
No! The nightingale at eve pours forth her wild- 
est, dreamiest strain; 
The poet breathes his sweetest song wlien each 

pulse throbs with pain; 



OG A VOICE FROM THE SOUTH. 

The stars shower down their glory at the haunted 

midnight liour — 
They may not change their brightness, nor tlie poet 

lose his power. 

Pale poet, sinking down to earth, sad, desolate, and 
weak, 

With the ilash beneath thy eyelid, and the plague- 
spot on tliy cheek, 

Hast thou written all they whispered thee, those 
spirit-tones which roll 

With deep and thrilling echoes through the caverns 
of thy soul? 

Shake the death-damp from thy brow, and let sen- 
tinels be set. 

Who, in their noiseless night-watch, may pace each 
parapet. 

And gather up, with heedful care, the thought- 
enchanted gleams 

Which cluster round thy pillow from the far-off 
land of dreams. 

Then, ere in the last slumber thy Aveary eye is furled. 

While the harp is still vibrating, pour them forth 
upon the world; 

Fling out thy soul's last echoes, freighted with a 
deathless power; 

Like the swan, breathe forth thy sweetest song e'en 
in thy dying-hour. 

When shall they all be written? — the melodies which 

swell 
From the mountain-tops and valleys, and from out 

the wooded dell. 



A VOICE FROM THE SOUTH. 97 

The glories of the sunset cloud, the rays of light 

which roam 
Like forms of love from jeweled gates which bar 

their Eden-home. 
When shall they all be written? — the histories which 

rest 
Where Pompeii's long-shroiided streets by stranger- 
feet are pressed, 
Where the sunbeams calmly wander through the 

iv3*-leaves which twine 
The columns of the ruined tower and crumbling 

Druid shrine. 
The world is full of melod}^, all nature is a hymn; 
Shall the symbols of thy royalty with rusted stains 

grow dim? 
From the glory of the sunset, from the ivy-mantled 

tower, 
Songs are waiting to be gathered; rise, O poet, in 

thy power! 



DAISIES. 

Daisies, bring to my ladye foir 
A thought or a vision sweet; 

Sing to the strands of her ebon hair. 
Of the heart that pants at her feet. 

Far in the English hedge-rows lie 
The germs of her namesake-flowers. 

Waiting the glow of a spring-time skv, 
Its |iromiso of liappuT hours. 



98 J VOICE FROM THE SOUTH. 

Tell her — no, diiisies; daisies, sleep, 

Twined in her shining hair; 
Leave to my heart and my lips to speak 

The tale they will tell — when they dare. 



GHOSTS. 



"Believe in ghosts?" Yes, for yon raised to-day, 
From the closed charnel-house wherein they lay, 
A hundred phantoms — by-gone memories, stirred 
From the dim vale of shadows by a word. 

buried Christmas, from whose press divine 
Dripped in my cup Love's sacramental wine; 
Whose holy hands, in benediction spread. 
Broke for my soul Love's consecrated bread I 

Will not the grave-stone chain thee? "Hence! thy 

crown 
Does sear mine eyeballs." Kay, thon wilt not down ; 
Thy ghost, like Banquo's, tills a vacant chair. 
Again I know a tender, watchful care; 

1 see the festal board, the festal cheer. 
And, gathered round it, circle faces dear. 

True friends, with genial smile and clasping hand. 
Turn bleak December into fairy -land. 
And light and graceful forms with buoyant tread 
Glide through the rooms — a word has waked thedead. 
Back to your cry[>ts, pale phantoms! I erelong 
Will fold my hands and join your mighty throng; 
I too will drink nepenthe from the springs 
Where Silence sits with brooding mother-wings, 
Where all life's toil and pain shall lind surcease, 
Whore sfrows tlic Jofiis of rfenial prafc' 



A VOICE FROM THE SOUTH. 99 

IN MEMORIAM: "CROW." 



'• Only a dog," you say. Ali ! but you see 

ITe filled a higher niche than that for me. 

lie was the echo of a step no more 

To pause at even-tide beside my door; 

A hand now resting with the silent dead 

Once dropped caresses on his silky head; 

Now both are gone, and faith, and hope, and trust. 

Stricken to earth, like them are only — dust! 

"The beasts that perish !" Ah ! and can it be? 
Are there no "happy hunting-grounds" for thee, 
AVhere thou may'st wander, all untouched by pain, 
And meet thy master's kindly smile again? 
Alas! no mortal sight, however keen. 
Can pierce the veil which hides the Great Unseen; 
But still I think somewhat that never dies 
Looked out at me from thy brown, wistful ej'es. 

Poor, faithful, humble friend! howe'er that be, 

"True unto death," an epitaph for thee, 

I carve in song; and for the future dim 

We well may trust our woes and fates to him — 

The Crucified — who, ever pleading, stands 

Lifting aloft his scarred and bleeding hands. 






100 A VOICE FROM THE SOUTH. 

THEY TOLD ME THOU WERT HAUGHTY. 



They told me thou wert haughty, that thy spirit's 

harp had sighed, 
Golden-stringed although it was to no touch save 

that of pride; 
But a strange and wondrous beauty even then was 

in the spell. 
Which like a lute's low echoes on my tranced spirit 

fell. 
But I dared not love thee! as we watch some 

shining star. 
In silent adoration, from our earthly sphere afar. 
Lighting with its golden radiance the Elysian 

bowers above. 
So I looked on thee to worship, but I had no thought 

to love. 

And yet a half-formed consciousness lay brooding 

in my breast, 
When strange and dim flashed up in thy dark eyes 

that wild unrest. 
That they had read thy spirit ill who strove to solve 

its dreams. 
That Love's pure star shone bright and clear upon 

its haunted streams. 
Yet never till that summer eve, when those dark 

braids of hair 
Swept all disheveled round thy form, guessed I thy 

deep despair, 
As with thy white hands clasped in mine I listened 

to each tone, 
And read the haughty spirit which the world had 

never known. 



A VOICE FROM THE SOUTH. 101 

Kow God and thou forgive me, that I felt the knowl- 
edge roll 
Through my heart with mystic rapture, my Undine 

had found a soul; 
And then,0 then I loved thee — I feltthe worship rise 
With every wave of light which shone within thy 

radiant eyes. 
Thine was unselfish love, sweet girl ; no earthly hope 

was twined 
Around the glorious image thus within thy heart 

enshrined. 
And when those dark soul-features cast aside their 

"silver veil," 
Thy very spirit seemed to die in one low moaning 

wail. 

I saw that bitter parting as in one long, wild embrace 
Upon his heaving bosom laid thy cold and death- 
like face; 
And when thy clinging arms from their frantic 

wreathing fell, 
I heard that dread " Forever! " ring out like a funeral 

knell. 
Two blighted hearts sent up their throbs that lovely 

summer-night, 
Upon two spirit-altars died their last, their holiest 

light. 
With Fame's laurel on his forehead, he walks among 

us now; 
Thoa bear'st a brighter coronal on thy immortal 

brow. 



102 A VOICE FROM THE SOUTH. 

They said that thou wert beautiful, young pilgrim 
on life's strand, 

Ere yet thy snowy temples bore an amaranthine 
band. 

They saw thee Avhen th}- spirit scarce seemed 
shadowed by a cloud, 

But I alone of all the band bent o'er thee in thy 
shroud. 

Though pale, and cold, and rigid, thou wast very 
lovely then, 

For Peace slept on thy forehead like a regal diadem ; 

The look of wild nnrest and writhing agony had tied, 

And a light ne'er won in life had wreathed the feat- 
ures of the dead 

O it was well that thou shouldst die thus in thy 

summer-bloom! 
For falsehood from life's holiest buds hud crushed 

the sweet perfume. 
One cloud may darken over all the heart's mysteri- 
ous lore. 
And Love's sweet flowers when they are crushed may 

bloom nevermore! 
All earth bore not a guerdon for that one dear, broken 

dream ; 
Slept not so rich a jewel on the bosom of Life's 

stream. 
And so upon one autnnm eve, where flowers sweet 

perfume gave. 
In thy pure and saintly beauty we laid thee in thy 

grave. 



A VOICE FROM THE SOUTH 103 

THE DEATH-SLEEP. 



Thou'rt dreaming Isabel: 
There is a spell 
Laid on thee, thy blue eyes 
Droop with a weight of pain; 

wake again ! 

Up from that strange, and dreamy posture rise. 

For long, for weary hours, 

Amid the flowers. 
Thus hast thou sat and piled 

Rich garlands, but the day 

Wears now away — 
Wake, wake! Tholi 'rt dreaming, thought- 
haunted child! 

Thy clustering ringlets fall 

Like a gold pall 
Around thee, on thy hand, 

Which in its w^axen rest, 

Closely compressed, 
Lies movelessly upon the silver sand. 

1 dare not venture near, 
I shrink in fear, 

With every breath of air, 

At the unearthly grace 

Of thy pale face, 
O'ershaded with thick waves of shiniuix hair. 



104 A VOICE FROM THE SOUTH. 

Pale one, a voice calls out — 
With shrinking doubt, 
I shun its echo fell. 

Yet back within my soul 
The accents roll, 
" Not dreaming, dead ! " O dead ! sweet Isabel ! 

Kot dead, not dead, my bird! 

by one word 
This dreadful doubting quell; 

Kise — O that marble touch 

Could not be such 
In life — dead, dead — Isabel ! 



"WHAT IS LOVE?" 



"What is love?" Go ask the billows which heave 

Etna's fiery sea, 
The thunder and the cataract — in mercy ask not me! 
My soul is trembling with a word too great for lip 

or brain — 

should a mortal's feeble tongue that mighty word 

profane? 
In the tropic realms of fancy sweeps a radiant vision 

by, 
Like a cloud of summer sunset o'er an amethystine 

sky. 
Stay thy course, bright-orbed spirit! JSTow, by all 

the powers above, 

1 summon thee to fnrl thy wing, and tell me what 

is love. 



A VOICE FROM THE SOUTH. 105 

Is it words of witching sweetness, touched with 

Passion's glowing spell, 
Which an angel's tongue might whisper or a traitor's 

breathe as well? 
Slants its shadow on the soul when, in gold and 

purple state. 
Visions crowned with rainbow-chaplets by its inner 

temple wait? 
When with every cloud of incense swells of nn-stic 

music start 
In intoxicating sweetness from the faint and reeling 

heart? 
Or, burns its wildest grandeur where, on heaven's 

eternal scrolls, 
Earth-divided hands have written the deep bridal of 

their souls? 
Or, is it but a remnant of the old chivalric day? 
With the age of old romance have its foot-})rints 

passed away? 
Ah, no! where lives the icoman but would die beside 

the shrine? 
Where pas^on-lamps, lit by her soul, like Vesta's 

tapers shine? 
Spirit garlanded with amaranth, O breathe to me 

the name 
Which trembles in my soul, but which my lips can 

never frame ! 

"What is love?" Go ask the poet when his soul is 

bathed in light. 
And, wandering amid the orbs which diadem the 

night. 



106 A VOICE FROM 'tllE SOVTH. 

Bid him from the lightning's flashes trace an alpha- 
bet of fire, 

And set the words to mnsic on the storm-god's 
wildest lyre! 

Let him gaze upon the Titans till within his throb- 
bing heart, 

Imaged from their savage grandeur, forms of bound- 
less outline start; 

And then, beneath the fire-eyed stars' which light 
the dome above. 

Lead him forth at solemn midnight, and there ask 
\\\xn''^yhatislover' 



A SUNRISE AND SUNSET. 



Sunrise at Naples I O'er her glorious bay 
Sweep the soft gold-mists, and the same blue wave 
Which, one short hour agone, upon its breast 
Pillowed a star-gleam, now upheaves in bliss, 
Its cold lips warming with the day-god's kiss. 
Ha! is the legend true? Does Venus rjse 
From the bright sea-foam, or has mortal form 
Stolen her loveliness? These Southern lands 
Are ricli in beauty; have they burst to bloom 
In such a flower as this? Ah ! the rich lips 
Are human in their curving, and the eyes 
Have drunk up glor}- from the stars which crown 
Italian midnight. Like a sunbeam rests 
A smile on the young face. 

Alas! alas! 
That such should love, should watch, and wait to hear 



A VOICE FROM THE SOUTIL 107 

The coming of a footstep, and grow pale 

When it came not; that the rich bloom should fade 

From the pure cheek, and girlhood's silvery laugh 

Be hushed forever! Beauty, talent, wealth, 

Not always have won love. The wreath of fame 

Too often circles round an aching brow, 

And diamonds flasli above a restless heart. 

Still Nina waits, still higher climbs tlie sun. 
And yet he comes not. With such lingering steps 
Slie turns awa}', the light and bloom all dead 
On her pure face. "Another morn, perhaps," 
She whispers sadly. Ah! another morn, 
Nina, will see the marriage-garland wreathed 
To crown a forehead scarce less fair than thine. 
Another morn ! its sunset rays shall shine 
Upon a bridal should have been thine own, 
And he who was thy lover even now 
Is bending o'er the morrow's promised bride; 
Faith, truth, and honor — all are lulled to sleep 
'Neath the wild witchery of a siren's smile. 

Morn came and passed away. The setting sun 
Gleamed red upon the waters, and the cheek 
Of evening crimsoned with his farewell kiss. 
Long purple shadows o'er the hill-tops swept 
Their misty pinions, and the vesper-bells 
Oliimed low and sweet upon the pulseless air. 

Bathed in that golden halo, with clasped hands, 
And droo[)ing eyelids heavy with the weight 
Of unshed tears, stood Nina on the strand, 
Of erst Love's trysting-})lace, and now its tomb. 
Henceforth it l)ut remains for her to count 



108 A VOICE FROM THE SOUTK 

The grave-stones of the years, whose knell has rung- 
Through the dim midnight sky. ne'er again 
May they be numbered by spring-times, and flowers, 
And hours witli rainbow-chaplets, and perfumes, 
And birds, and music, and low, loving tones! 
Her Eden is a desert, with no palm 
To shade its waste, or crystal fount to cool 
The burning fever of her pilgrim-life. 

Midnight in Naples! At the Virgin's shrine 

Drooped a pale form, the moonlight wreathing round 

Her young brow like a glory, resting on 

The white, clenched hands and on the unbound hair 

Which draped her form in heavy, tangled folds. 

"Mary, sweet mother, hoar me! Life has grown 

A bitter burden to take up. The wave 

Wooes to its bosom, and this fevered brain 

Is throbbing wildly. Save me from myself! 

Earth is most pitiless, but thou art kind. 

O take me to thy bosom, like a child 

Weary with sobbing, which but craves to rest 

Its aching head upon a mother's breast!" 

Waned the dim night; the starlight died away 
In the gray morning. There the pale-browed nuns 
Found jSTina. On her brow sweet peace at last 
Had furled its pinions; weary heart and brain 
Had ceased their th robbings. Heaven was pitiful, 
And took her to its rest. They dug her grave 
Where the sweet blossoms of that tropic land 
Waft kisses to its bay. Birds, waves, and Avinds — 
All sing around her. She was beautiful. 
So beauty crowns her last calm resting-place. 



A VOICE FROM THE SOUTH. 109 

MAGDALEN. ^ 



Just " Magdalen," 
Carved on a stone 
Gray and moss-grown; 
So read the name — 
Record of shame, 

Graven for men. 

Wild eglantine 

Trailed o'er the tomb, 

Fragrant with bloom; 

But for her name 

And for her fame 
Only one line. 

Just "Magdalen!" 

Under the shade 

Of that name she is laid; 

Apart from her race, 

With scorn and disgrace, 
Branded by men. 

:N"o\v, "Magdalen;" 
But in past years, 
Unmildewed by tears, 
When for a name 
To the font she came, 
"Pearl," said they then. 

Ah, "Magdalen!" 
Freed from all stain. 
As from all pain, 
May'st thou, forgiven, 
Happ}^ in heaven. 

Be "Tearl" airain! 



110 A VOICE FROM THE SOUTH. 

IMPLORAPACE! 



In the drear and solemn midnight, 

In the sultry glare of day, 
'Neath my heav}- cross I totter. 

Struggling on as best I may. 
Saviour, b}' thine liour of anguish, 

When up Calvary's flinty road 
Strained thy footsteps, O have pity! 

Help me lift m\' heavy load. 
Implora •pace! 

All thy whirlwinds have swept o'er me, 

And around my weary feet. 
Madly surging and receding. 

All thy billows flercely beat. 
Saviour, by the hour when Mar}-, 

Weeping, knelt thy cross below, 
Look thou down in gentle mercy, 

Mercy for a woman's woe! 
Implorapace! 

Lo! the shadows swoop around me, 

Evening closes chill and gray; 
unveil for me the gh)ries 

Of the bright eternal day ! 
Buried Christ and risen Saviour, 

By the hour, ere to thy throne, 
Ascending, waiting angels 

Rolled away the heavy stone, 
Implora 2)cice! 



A VOICE FROM THE SOUTH. 1 1 1 

TO MRS. M S 



They tell me the lily you gave me last spring 
(The lily I gave my k)ve) 

Waved white and sweet 

O'er the sod at his feet 
As the wings of the angels ahovo, 

I dream to-night of the gardens fair 
Where the fadeless lilies bloom, 

And my eyes are wet, 

For I never forget 
The lily which grows on a tomb. 

It sings me a song from its pure white throat, 
A song which the world cannot hear; 

Though it sleeps 'neath the sod, 

At the bidding of God 
It will "rise from the dead" next year. 

So we shall rise. Let the circling spheres 
Sweep on through infinite space, 
In eternity's spring 
(Hear the lily sing) 
We shall greet each loving face. 

May you pass from 3'our flowers at the Master's call, 

When he stretches a beckoning hand. 

Like an odorous breath, 

Through the "Valley of Death," 

To a home in that "beautiful land!" 



112 A VOICE FROM THE SOUTH. 

A PHANTOM. 



Beautiful, mocking shape, depart! 

Whence to this earth comest thon? 
Bringest thou bahii for an aching heart, 

Bay for a dying one's brow? 
Say, iu Elysium's lily-tields 

Hast thou a regal throne. 
Where the wild clangor of swords and shields, 

Battle and death, are unknown? 

" Yes, I've a chalice filled with balm 

Meet for a spirit like thine; 
If thou would'st taste of a pulseless calm. 

Drink of my anodyne! 
Softly the lily-blossoms wave, 

Swept by the wooing breeze, 
Where the blue streams of my empire lave 

Giant and shadowy trees. 
Come, wilt thou rest on my bosom there. 

Lulled by my whispered charms? 
Say, wilt thoh sleep with the young and fair? 

Mourning one, come to my arms!" 

Beautiful phantom, I know thee now;. 

Timid ones shrink at thy name. 
Who has such spells for the heart as thou? 

Who has such spells to tame? 
Beautiful shape, thy lip is cold, 

Colder th}- shadowy breast, 
Yet on thy bosom I fain would fold 

All WW wild visions to rest. 



A VOICE FROM THE SOUTH. 113 

Dark is the solemn home in the grave, 

Darker this world to me; 
Angel of Death, thy sentence I crave: 

Kiss me and set me free! 



WAITING. 



She stood in an oriel-window, 

In tangled shadow and shine, 
Where the sunset's shivered lances 

Fell through the clustering vine — 
A mournful and haggard woman. 

Smitten hy sorrow and years; 
Her forehead was crowned with silver 

And her voice was full of tears. 
June roses blossomed around her, 

Blue skies were over her head. 
But "life is a weary travail. 

Life is empty," she said,' 

Parting the sunset glory, 

Through billowy iields of grain, 
Struggled the patient oxen 

Drawing the heavy wain. 
Over the grass}' meadow. 

And over the dusty road, 
Home to his wife and children 

The reaper cheerfully strode. 
But she looked to the western marshes. 

Where the dying daylight bled. 
And her lips grew white and rigid — 
"■Thou hast smitten me sore" she said. 
8 



114 A VOICE FROM THE SOUTH. 

"Who can bring me nepenthe?" 

Shrill rose her voice in its pain. 
"Is there no balm in Gilead, 

To win for me peace again?" 
Twilight to darkness deepened, 

But in the sky afar 
Was written the Savionr's promise- 
Brightened tlie eveyiiiig star. 
In wordless, sublime submission 
She patiently bent lier head — 
'■^I will bear my cross till I enter 
Into thy rest,'' she said. 



"OUT OF THE DEPTHS." 



Which is the heaviest, heart or hand, 
To-night? I hardly know — 

The hands so worn and brown with toil, 
Or heart so aged with woe. 

One thing is sure — to both at last 
Will come the longed-for rest; 

But how or when, in hut or hall. 
The dear "Lord knoweth best." 

And be it where, o'er Northern snows. 

The red aurora gleams. 
Or where, amid her citron -groves, 

A tropic summer dreams. 

It will be welcome. Chill and gray 
Life's brooding twilight falls; 
"Out of the depths," to thee, dear Lord, 
My fainting spirit calls. 



A VOICE FROM THE SOUTH. 115 

O tliou, the Crucified! uphold 

And guide me through the gloom 

To that fair land where, bathed in light, 
Thy fadeless lilies bloom! 



MEMORIES. 



On the wall hangs a lute 
Whose strings are mute, 

For she who in gladness only 
Woke its echoes bland 
Sought the spirit-land, 

Thus leaving me sad and lonely. 

Can I touch those wires 
AVhich no hand inspires 

As in days of sunshine and beauty. 
When to turn the leaves. 
In tliose summer eves, 

Was a pleasure and a duty? 

In a casket laid 

There 's a golden braid — 
But this feverish brain is reeling — - 

You would weep to know 

It was hers, l)elow. 
Whose soul w^as all love and feeling. 

I severed this band 

With a trembling hand, 
Then went forth in silence and sorrow 

And the starlight fell 

On the troubled swell 
Of a soul that asks no morrow.. 



116 A VOICE FROM THE SOUTH. 

Her head on my breast, 

Like a bird at rest, 
When worn and weary with siiiging, 

Seems lingering still. 

And a sudden thrill 
Through my lonely heart is springing. 

A seal and a sign 

Of this love of mine 
Are the tokens I clasp in sadness: 

The jewels she wore, 

And the ringlets bore. 
When life was all light and gladness. 

They whisper me now 

Of a sunny brow, 
And of many a loving murmur. 

Ere her voice was stilled, 

And her heart-strings chilled, 
While yet in life's glowing summer. 

These memories cling 

To my spirit's wing 
Like sentinels mournfully standing. 

To tell of her doom 

And the lonely tomb 
Which Southern flowers are imbandinar. 






.4 VOICE FROM THE SOUTH. 117 

THE CHILDREN OF THE SOUL. 



Within the heart's deep chambers there dwells a 

spirit-bird, 
Within the heart's deep chambers its wild music- 
tones are heard; 
And ever to that sound, whether speaking joy or woe, 
From the portals of the soul mystic legions strangely 

flow. 
Keeping time with the deep murmur, march they 

from the haunted hold. 
With all the stately grandeur, with all the pomp of 

old; 
Leave the hold with waving banners, to that strange 

and dreamy strain, 
Leave the hoUl in all their glory, never to return 

again. 
The}' are going forth to battle with the clarion's 

thrilling sound, 
The echo of the drum, and the strong war-horse's 

bound; 
While the spirit -bird's low murmur guides them 

onward to the fray, 
And trills the dream}' echoings to wliich they march 

away. 
Tell mo, have you fled the battle-field, or bowed to 

their control, 
When in mystic bauds came marching forth tlie 

children of the soul? 



118 A VOICE FROM THE SOUTH. 

The}' bear the South's rich oft'erings, the gifts of 

love and song, 
The sunlit glories of the West, amid their gleaming 

throng; 
And each spirit bears a banner, trails the ground 

each ermined hem, 
In each hand a jeweled scepter, on each brow a 

diadem ; 
And the purple robe of royalty in rich-hued folds is 

twined 
Around the fadeless forms of those children of the 

mind, 
Which press the wide-flung portal in their never- 
ceasing flight, 
Surrounded by the antique gleams like wreaths of 

rainbow-light. 
And amid the flashing banners, which, like a 

burning pall, 
AYith tlieir wealth of seraph-glory are overshadowing 

all, 
A strange, wild sound comes thrilling like the rush 

of wings on air; 
O the soul, the willful star-winged soul of Poesy is 

there! 
liaveyou heard that gushing music? have 3*ou bowed 

to its control. 
When in mystic bands came marching forth the 

children of the soul? 

The rush, the roar of battle, swells beneath a noon- 
day sun. 

And banners wave, and swords flash high, where 
flelds are lost and won; 



A VOICE FROM THE SOUTH. 119 

Yet, still in all their changeless pomp, the children 

of the soul, 
To the spirit-bird's low echo, through the antique 

portal roll, 
Till a requiem sounds on air, and with veiled and 

drooping head, 
And midnight banners trailed in dust, the}^ mourn 

the early dead, 
Whose fierce existence withered up beneath the 

scorcliing flame. 
And the red and glaring torch-light on battle-field 

of Fame. 
O! come they from a funeral-urn, or from a palace 

bright, 
That thus they bear upon their l)rows the shaded 

folds of night? 
Smiles and tears, joy and sorrow, they are issuing 

from that clime 
Whera the spirit-bird flings out on air its wildly 

soaring chimo. 
Have you felt tliis heavy sorrow? have you bowed 

to its control, 
When in mystic bands came marching forth the 

children of the soul? 

Still, through the antique portal that shadowy army 

comes. 
And lieavy on the air sounds the beating of their 

drums; 
And irised folds are resting with those of darker 

stain 
Upon the jeweled garments of that ever-marching 

train; 



120 A VOICE FROM THE SOUTH. 

Some pale, and crushed, and broken, others strong 

in native might. 
Some robed in midnight darkness, and some 

wreathed in hues of light; 
Their wild and changeful banners sweep the world 

with mighty power — 
Have you bowed beneath their influence in Passion's 

clouded hour? 
Tell me, have you seen the legions which from those 

portals spring? 
Have you heard the mystic flutterings of that wild 

spirit's wing? 
Ah! in the still watch of the night, when all was 

hushed in sleep. 
You have felt their angel-breathings, you have heard 

their murmur deep; 
You have known their joy and sorrow, you have 

bowed to their control. 
When in m3'stic bands came marching forth the 

children of the soul ! 



TO G. E. G. 



Quivers a dream in my heart — 

Shall I unfold it? 
In it thou bearest a part — 
Thou Shalt behold it. 
'Twas when the soft summer-breeze over 
The sweet tropic-blossoms was bending, 
Like a true and a passionate lover 
With whispers of worship unending: 



A VOICE FROM THE SOUTH. 121 

Then came this dream to me, still 

Heavily laden 
With the rich perfumes which fill 

Gardens in Aidenn. 

It spoke of a song which I heard 

(Do you remember 
Each gentle and musical word 
This chill December?), 
And now Avhile life-chords are unbroken. 
Ere the "cistern" is shivered in twain, 
I would breathe in this song a faint token 
That yet I remember the strain. 
So to my heart came this dream — - 

Thou dost behold it; 
Where thy soul's altar-fires gleam, 
Ever infold it. 



"VITA EST NIHIL SINE FAMA." 



TO 



"YiTA est nihil?" Is it thus with thee? 

Floats there no garland on Time's heaviug sea 

More purely radiant than the laurel-band 

Borne l)y the monarch-spirits of our land? 

Burus on thy heart's proud altar no strong fiame 

More holy than the lamp lit up by Fame? 

Is there no dream whose memory thou wouldst shrink 

With aught less holy than itself to link? 

None? — l)y the blasting bitterness of woe, 

The curse of genius, never answer "No." 



122 A VOICE FROM THE SOUTH. 

Fame and ambition — ah! cold words are they, 
And very meaningless; they never may 
Calm down the writhing spirit's stormy thrill, 
Or blot the memories which its annals till. 
Ah! when the shadows of the past entomb 
Faith, childhood's angel, in sepulchral gloom; 
AVhen Passion's long-cooled lava rests above 
The crumbling skeletons of trust and love, 
Canst thou not words of nobler meaning frame 
Than "Life is naught without the crown of fame?" 

Fame and ambition! — dreamer, count the cost, 
Ere in the desert life's clear springs are lost. 
Like a vast iceberg on its Northern throne. 
Calm, yiroud, and frozen, mateless and alone. 
Must be the soul which nurses those wild dreams. 
Like misty shadows on its hidden streams. 
One picture from the past: the radiant bloom 
Of twelve bright Springs has faded in the tomb 
Since that sweet even, clear and April-nursed — 
Ah! was it ominous? — it was t\\Q first. 

Wearily drooped the sunset's purple plumes 

O'er hill and valley, palaces and tombs; 

Soft stole its gold mists through the orange-trees, 

Whose perfumed clusters trembled in the breeze; 

And the sweet South wind, passing o'er a brow 

All amber-shadowed, listened to a vow 

To carve upon the rugged cliffs of Time 

A memory Titanic and sublime — 

A vow remembered but in later years 

With maledictions wild and burning tears. 



A VOICE FROM THE SOUTH. 123 

Years have passed onward — soft the sunlight falls, 

Through broken shafts in Tadnior's ruined halls, 

On a pale wanderer. Recked that young heart, 

As day by day it felt its youth depart, 

If laurel-leaves were gleaming sgft and fair 

In the thick clusters of his hair? 

With all his glory, happiness unwon, 

He sits beneath the "Temple of. the Sun," 

While scorn and bitterness alone unroll 

Their corsair-banners in his throbbing soul ! 



THE WANDERER. 



Pale pilgrim from the far-off Apennines! 

Wild devotee at all the shrines of old 

Where mortal hearts may worship! thei'e is strange. 

Deep gloom upon thy brow. Say, was it thus 

In thy bright boyhood? my childhood's friend, 

Sad, sad has been thy destiny! A heart 

Which poured forth music as the flowers perfume. 

Clasping its loneliness around it, w-ent 

Out to the cold, dark world, and struggled there. 

Casting a mantle o'er its holiest throbs. 

And sealing up their melod}' until 

The chords but echo with a fitful strain. 

O! thou hast wandered far in search of rest. 

And found it not. Thou glorious, gifted one! 

Thy weary soul for long, long years hast striven 

With its deep sorrow, and I may but weep 

To see thee thus. 



124 A VOICE FROM THE SOUTH. 

All, all 18 gay around, 
And lute-tones wildly swell and die away, 
And there are murmuring sounds, and low, sweet 

words 
Blent with the music; and thy stern, proud form 
Moves by with haughty scorn, thy amber hair 
Resting in rich, bright waves upon thy brow; 
And the wild beauty of thy boyish days 
Is still unchanged; but O how cold, how strange I 
I read the spell. Perchance a shadow rests 
On thy high heart, borne up from buried hours. 
Ah! thy full lip is quivering, and thy brow 
Grows pale with agon}'. Say, is it so? 
Do thoughts of her — ^^the gentle, loving one 
Who flung a life's devotion at thy feet- 
Still haunt thy writhing soul? That last adieu, 
Say, does it linger still in "memory's halls" 
With wailing sound? 

Though proud and cold they came, 
Those murmured words, no chord within her soul 
Echoed response. She loved thee, O so well! 
Grieved for thy absence, breathed thy name with 

prayers 
And blessings, till the pale and quivering lips 
Were stirred no more with music from her soul. 
Alas! though wild and wayward, was it well 
In thee to turn away with haughty words 
Of scorn and anger from that loving heart? 

I watched her long, and saw in fitful gleam 
Of radiance on her cheek the bloom of death. 
Fler brow grew still more pale, and her dark eyes 
Fhished out a glory like the midnight stars; 



A VOICE FROM THE SOUTH. 125 

And then she slept. And thou liast wandered far, 
Far, far, since then-; bat yet there is no home 
For thy lone spirit on the weary earth. 
I leave thee to thy sadness, with deep prayers 
That Peace may shed her rainbow-hues above 
Th}- weary heart when the "Death-angel" comes! 



TO FANNIE, ON RECEIVING HER PHOTOGRAPH. 



Blessings upon thee, cousin, for thy gift — 
The shadow of the sweet and radiant face 
Which ne'er has lost the seal of angelhood 
Stam})ed on thy baby-brow I I scarce have words 
To say how much I love thee. On my lip 
The utterance dies, and in my throbbing heart 
Flutter the gold-winged thoughts to burst their 

chain. 
O! were their fetters broken, they would float 
Back to the dreamy past. The spring-time flowers 
Were cradled in their incense when my heart 
First caught a breath of love-perfume from thine; 
And the blue mists of Indian-summer lay 
On every hill-top ere within thy home 
I met the sunlight of thy gentle smile. 
Thou'rt very beautiful! Thy white brow gleams 
Beneath its coronal of dark-brown hair 
With Phidian loveliness, and the full Avreath 
Of thy curved lip is eloquent with love. 

Blessings upon thee! 0! if this wild soul 
May ever sing above the radiant stars, 



126 



A VOICE FROM THE SOUTH. 



Then it will find a word to speak its pure 
And deep afllection — on this earth it ne'er 
Can find a voice. Ere many years pass by, 
Perchance in some dim twilight thou, sweet friend, 
Wilt hear its trembling anthem, and wilt feel 
A spirit's kiss npon thy gentle brow 

Blessings npon thee, lovely, loving one! 

Would that this even I might seek thy side, 

And clasp thy hands like snow-white petted doves 

Within my own! earth-caged angel ! would 

That I might wander out with thee beneath 

The purple arch of midnight and the stars, 

To cool these feverish pulses! It may be 

That the "Not yet," which Destiny has stamped 

In iron characters npon my soul, 

Will be a "Never"— that Elysium's fields 

Of asphodel will woo me to their i-est 

Ere the sweet blossoms of this Southern clime 

Again may crown a blue-eyed April day. 

But, cousin, Love goes through the gates of Death, 

And bears its memories to the spirit-land; 

And naught can e'er unlink the golden chain 

Whose mesmer-spell has bound my soul to thine. 




A VOICE FROM THE SOUTH. 127 

FRIENDSHIP, LOVE, TRUTH. 



Glorious triad ! Stars of light 
On the Ethiop brow of night, 
Like the diamond's priceless sheen 
On the brow of Egypt's queen. 
Hail! O never Eastern slave 
To his sovereign ever gave 
Humbler worship as his due 
Than my soul accords to you! 

Ye who on your bosoms bear 
As a badge those gems so rare, 
Say, are none your ranks within 
Foul with Ananias's sin? 
None who faithless traitors prove 
To the ties of brother-love? 

Is there one amid 3^our band 
Dares not raise aloft his hand. 
Lest he shows tlit'i-eon a stain 
Awful as the brand of Cain? 
Lo! as to a throne of grace 
I upturn a pallid face. 
O let not my prayers be vain! 
Cleanse your altar-steps from stain. 
God, not I, his right demands — 
Lift to him unsullied hands! 



128 A VOICE FROM THE SOUTH. 

"FOR BETTER, FOR WORSE." 



"For better, for worse, until death us do part," 

The night winds seem softl}- to sa}^; 
And, listening, I dream of the days that are past, 

Ere our hearts and our heads were so gray. 
Well, Time leaves his mark on the happiest lives; 

So if ours has known something of change. 
If our souls are less jubilant now than of old, 

In our youtli it can hardly be strange. 
But while Faith and Aftection keep tryst in our 
hearts. 

And home is a beacon-hght still, 
There's something j^et left us — a blossom no blight 

Can ever o'ershadow or kill. 
And though the wild tempests may sweep o'er our 

Yet the stars' hidden glories are there — 
The soft summer breezes will come by and by. 

Though whirlwinds now darken the air. 
"For better, for worse, until death us do part " — 

Still Faith on her watch-tower must wait; 
And perchance, in some blossom-gemmed land far 
away. 

Our tangled life-woof may grow straight. 












A VOICE FROM THE SOUTH. 129 

A SONG FOR A POET. 



TO S. D. H. 



A SONG for a poet! 

Bright spirits of air, 
Come, bind up a garland 

To twine in his hair 
(A shadowy circlet, 

With thoughts for the flowers), 
And, in an elf-song, 

Breathe a charm o'er his hours. 
I often have wooed 3'ou 

To bless a proud brow; 
You answered my calling — 

O come to me now ! 

A song for a poet! 

The visions 'which came 
Of erst to my heart. 

With their pinions of flame, 
Shall wing the deep anthems 

Which ceaselessly start 
From the lute which the angels 

Have strung in my heart. 
When they tuned it, they bade me 

Arouse its wild tone 
To sing to the souls 

Of the noble alone; 
And I know that the thoughts 

Which now twine it around 
Will call forth its proudest 

And holiest sound. 



130 A VOICE FROM THE SOUTH. 

A song for a poet! 

O would that the gleam 
Stealing down from yon star-isle 

Might rouse a sweet dream ! 
Would that in ray spirit 

Its shadow might rest, 
As now it is clasping 

The billow's blue breast! 
Then, ere in the morning 

Its radiance could wane, 
Perchance I might sing him 

A worthier strain. 



FRIENDS. 



Friends? They are only for summer-time — - 
Like swallows come, and like swallows go; 

Seeking a home in some summer clime 

Where birds sing sweet, and where blossoms blow. 

Well, God knows best; yet I once had friends — 
Friends, or at least I thought them so; 

But now, in the light which the present lends 
To the past, I answer, "I do not know." 

A poet wrote me (his hand is dust 

Who traced the lines) in the by-gone years, 

"Experience is deadliest foe to trust." 
I christen the truth with my bitter tears. 

0! friend of that beautiful, vanished time. 
Whether or not thou wast true to me. 

The dear God knows; but, on any shrine, 
I would swear that I kept my faith to thoe. 



A VOICE FROM THE SOUTH. 131 

And I bniy thy memory deep in my heart, 
I crown it there with the laurel and bay — 

A friendship kept from the world apart 
Till the blaze of the final judgment-day. 



LOVE AND PRIDE. 



I AM a wild and a wayward thing, 
Borne ever onward on Passion's wing; 
My jewels all on an ideal strand, 
M}' treasures all in the dreaming land. 
Dost thou think, vain one, with thine eye of light 
To woo one glance or one thought to-night? 
Awa}'! I care not what once might be, 
There is now no pulse in my soul for thee. 
Like withered flowers on a swift stream cast, 
Or the swell of a song on the rushing blast. 
My grief has passed. 

I have listened to Love's entrancing tone. 
And flung my heart on its altar-stone. 
And heard strange music, and bent to the swell 
Of the mystic thoughts in its shrine which dwell. 
Like hidden birds whose ethereal chime 
Rings out on the air at even-time; 
But the altars are crushed, the temples waste. 
The sculptured lines from the wall effaced — 
Like withered flowers on a swift stream cast, 
Or the swell of a song on the rushing blast. 
They all have [)assod. 



132 A VOICE FROM THE SOUTH. 

The heart-blood crimsons my brow with shame, 
And burns on my cheek like a lurid flame; 
But there 's not one in this throng to-night 
Who deems that ray pathway is less than bright. 
The flowers are twined in my braided hair, 
But trembling fingers have placed them there; 
My words with as calm a cadence roll 
As if they sprang from a happy soul; 
But yet, like flowers on a swift stream cast, 
Or the swell of a song on the rushing blast, 
My hopes have passed. 

I have borne a high and a haughty brow. 
And a proud and scornful heart, erenow; 
But the brow is saddened by Sorrow's cloud, 
And the humbled heart is no longer proud — ■ 
It has lost its strength, as when of old 
My grief was hid by a semblance cold; 
And I know by the quivering lip and brow. 
By the anguish that rends my spirit now. 
By the memories Sorrow and Time have cast 
Within my soul by their rushing blast. 
Love has not passed. 

In this, this only, my heart is proud-—. 
In this alone it is all unbowed. 
If Sorrow's clouds on my bosom lie. 
They must not dim the light of my eye; 
And I would not the gay of earth should see 
The depths of my spirit's mystery; 
But yet — away! have I bent to-night. 
Thou "Merlin!" bent to thy dark eye's light? 
Ah, no! like flowers on a swift stream cast, 
Or the swell of a song on the rushing blast. 
My dreams have passed. 



A VOICE FROM THE SOUTH. 133 

THE SONG-SPIRIT. 



A SPIRIT o'er my spell-bound soul 

Has long held absolute control — 

Long held its sway within my breast, 

And there has built its hidden nest, 

Whispering sweet thoughts within my ear; 

And yet, ahis! I sometimes fear 

I have not caught those sounds aright 

Which thrill my heart with such delight, 

As thus it waves its fairy wings 

Above my spell-bound soul, and sings. 

They come so faint, so sad, so sweet, 
And then like airy visions tleet — 
Like crests of foam from ocean -waves, 
Like flitting wings in lonely caves. 
Such sounds, such spirit-thrilling tones. 
Sinking anon to murmuring moans, 
Linked with Love's fresh and dewy chain, 
Might mingle in a seraph's strain. 
While joyousl}' it waves its wings 
Above my spell-bound soul, and sings. 

Bright shapes from Fancy's web are there. 
Glowing with life, and light, and air; 
Catching, as swift they float along 
Upon the spa^rkling tide of song, 
A thousand dj-es, a thousand forms 
So fair — the very life-blood warms 
With its free gush, and Poesy 
Is [)icturod clear before my eye, 
AVhile the sweet spirit waves its wings 
Above my spell-bound soul, and sings. 



134 A VOICE FROM THE SOUTH. 

Fet oft it liglitly flies my breast, 
And leaves untenanted its nest, 
While sadness on my spirit lies 
As sleeps the cloud on summer skies; 
The air grows dark with gathering gloom. 
Even thought seerjis sinking to the tomb; 
Then, with its softly murmured strain, 
The bright song-spirit comes again, 
And gently waves its fair}^ wings 
Above my spell-bound soul, and sings. 

Was it the evanescent light 

Shed by a dream which crossed my sight? 

Ah, no! this spirit lives and breathes, 

And twines its amaranthine wreaths 

Round those — the pure, the good — whose eyes 

Make answer prompt to Misery's sighs; 

O'er each heart-gush, each kindly tone, 

Each soothing word to Grief's low moan. 

This fairy spirit waves its wings 

Of heaven, and its glory sings. 

O may this spirit I've caressed. 

So closely to my bosom pressed, 

ISTe'er leave me till to paradise 

My soul on seraph pinions flies! 

But with each heart-chord tightly twined. 

Forever may it live enshrined! 

My bosom's depths shall be its throne, 

Where I may list its thrilling tone. 

While still it gentl}* waves its wings 

Above my spell-bound soul, and sings. 



A VOICE FROM THE SOUTH. 135 

FLORENCE IS COMING. 



"Florence is coming in April," 

Coming to Elfindale — 
^Vliy does yon antique mirror 

Image a face so pale? • 

Why do my fingers pulseless 

Drop on the oaken chair, 
Leaving the wreath halt" fastened, 

Woven to twine in my hair? 
Florence — she is but ray cousin, 

Beautiful too as a dream, 
Pure as the water-lilies 

Which in the lakelet gleam. 
What in that simple sentence 

Causes my heart to quail ? 
"Florence is coming in April," 

Coming to Elfindale. 

List! I've a lordly browed cousin, 

One that I shrink from in fear: 
If it were not for Ernest, 

Florence would not be here. 
He is the lord of these acres, 

Stretching for many a mile, 
So they have wooed him this houri, 

Reared in an Eastern isle. 
I, to enrich his cofters, 

Go to a sunless doom, 
And with the coming April 

Enter a livino- tomb. 



136 A VOICE FROM THE SOUTH. 

Well may my fingers quiver, 
Well may my brow be pale — 

I in the convent, Florence 
In beautiful Elfindale. 

Far in yon thick-grassed meadow, 

Where the blue waters meet 
Long, drooping willow-branches, 

AVander white Fleta's feet. 
Now, when I stray forth at even, 

Tossing her silver mane, 
How she will bound toward me, 

Swift through the golden grain! 
Will for my petted favorite 

Love and caresses fail 
When, with the April, Florence 

Wanders in Elfindale? 

O! will my bright-winged canary 

Beat his cage-bars at a sign 
Given by Florence's finger 

As at the moving of mine? 
She in her island-palace 

Many a song has heard 
Which than my pet's may be sweeter- 

O will she love my bird? 
Captive, I open thy prison — 

Off to a bluer sky! 
Naught that I love shall be fettered, 

All shall be free save I! 
"Fleta" shall bound unbridled 

Over some Southern vale 
Ere, with her bridegroom, Florence 

Wanders in Elfindale. 



A VOICE FROM THE SOUTH. 137 

"Coming?" Well what does it matter? 

I shall be leagues away 
Ere the proud ship that bears her 

Anchors within the bay; 
Far up St. Mary's river, 

Barred in a convent cell, 
Dead to the world forever. 

Striving my beads to tell. 
Ah ! is it strange this message 

Causes my heart to quail? 
"Florence rs coming in April,'' 

ComincT to Elfindale. 



FORTY-THREE 



My mirror images to-night 

A mournful, haggard face, 
On which there lingers not a gleam 

Of girlhood's youth and grace. 

The hands which once were soft and fair 
Are brown and toil-worn now, 

And age and sorrow thread with white 
The locks which crown my brow. 

Well, I can face the truth. I would 

I had no cause for care, 
Save that the passing years have left 

My brow and cheek less fair. 



138 A VOICE FROM THE SOUTH. 

If I prized home and dear ones less, 

And admiration more, 
I well might weep to read to-night 

My mirror's truthfol lore. 

But those by whom I'm loved and love 
Have hearts as "true as gold," 

And scarce Avill value me the less 
Because I'm jjlain and old. 



THE HARP, THE ANGEL, THE FLOWER, AND 
THE STAR. 



There's a harp within my soul, 

Dearest friend, 
There's a harp within my soul. 
And its wa}' Ward echoes roll 
Like the music of the spheres 
O'er the rainbow-bi'ow of j-ears; 

Wild and high its notes ascend — 
There 's a harp within my soul. 

Dearest friend! 

And a bright-wing 'd angel there. 

Dearest friend, 
And a bright-wing 'd angel there. 
Sits with waving golden hair, . 
And on the ^olian strings 
Gently drops its fairy wings; 

With my own its whispers blend- 
There 's an angel in my soul. 

Dearest friend 1 



A VOICE FROM THE SOUTH. 13& 

There's a flower within ray heart, 

Dearest friend, 
There 's a flower within my heart, 
And its perfume seems a part 
Of some bud which drooped and died 
Upon life's wihl tempest-tide; 

Proudly o'er its bloom I bend — 
There's a flower within my heart. 

Dearest friend! 

There's a star bends o'er this flower, 

Dearest friend, 
There's a star bends o'er this flower, 
Watches o'er its sleep each hour, 
Prints Love's kiss upon its leaves 
When its waking bosom heaves; 

Would that their two lives might blend — 
The star and flower within my soul, 

Dearest friend ! 

Harp and angel in one tone. 

Dearest friend, 
Harp and angel in one tone. 
Star and flower, one bloom alone — 
What wild music then would rise. 
What rich perfume seek the skies I 

Would, O would they all might blend — • 
Harp and angel, star and flower, 

Dearest friend! 



140 A VOICE FBOM THE SOUTH. 

THE POET'S LIFE. 



They say the poet's life is one 

Made np of starry light alone, 

And that no thorns are in the braid 

Which Glory on his brow has laid. 

Could they but know the day-dreams strewed 

On air by that wild brotherhood — 

Fond memories crushed, a glittering hoard. 

Like pearls from gem-wreathed caskets poured. 

That when their jeweled-wealth has fled 

Leave but an urn to grace the dead — - 

They would not seek to share liis fate. 

His gilded tomb, his robe of state, 

But lay with humble heart aside 

The haughty emblems of his pride, 

Deeming the laureled crown of thought 

Which seems so fair too dearly bought. 

Yet little think the gay of earth 

What strings are swept to aid their mirth; 

And when they see the flashing eye 

Which lightly scans the passer-by, 

The curling lip, the careless tread, 

The ready smile, proud-lifted head. 

The wreath which on his brow is borne, 

They think the roses have no thorn. 



A VOICE FROM THE SOUTH, 141 

LADY BLANCHE. 



Say, what moves thy heart, sweet lady, 
Sweetest Lady Blanche, to-night? 

For thy hroad brow's regal beauty 
Is all luminous with light; 

And, amid the dusky twilight, 

Softly flash thy dew}' eyes. 
And their violet hue grows deeper 

Than the gorgeous tropic skies. 

Gloamings like the summer moonlight 
Sweep across thy pure young face. 

And thy crimson lip's rich curving 
Trembles in its haughty grace. . 

It is said that songs are sweetest 

Wliich from grieving bosoms spring; 

Yet if aching hearts brought music. 
How my own to-night would sing! 

But it is a marble sepulcher; 

No angel comes to roll 
The heavy stone which fetters 

The wild music of my soul. 

Yet if in this moaning spirit 
Resteth aught of sibyl power. 

Then thy heart with bliss is heavy 
As a dew-o'erburdencd flower, 

Now, O answer me, sweet lady — 
All thy sorrows I have known— 

Shall I share the darkness only. 
And the liifht be all thine own? 



142 A VOICE FROM THE SOUTH. 

Ah ! thy snow}" bosom flutters 
Like a timid, frighted dove, 
And thy veiled eyes half open — 
"I am thinking of my love." 

Of thy love, divinest beauty? 

I had thought ISTevada's crest, 
Looking whitely np to heaven, 

Scarce more icy than thy breast. 

It was but a playful utterance, 
With no sober meaning fraught, 

And I dreamed not of such answer 
When I bade thee speak thy thought. 

LiU^-blossom of our lowlands. 
With the heart of golden flame. 

How thy blue-veined temples crimson 
With thy young heart's rosy shame! 

Once upon lake Como's bosom, 

When the mooidight, floating down, 

On thy white and upturned forehead 
Rested like a silver crown, 

I heard a thrilling whisper — 
Bending o'er thy lil}' hand, 

Lord Percy breathed the worship 
Burning in his spirit grand. 

Sure thy angel-watchers sorrowed, 
For thy brow grew dark the while, 

And thy lij) had curved its crimson 
In a soft, bewilderiuir smile. 



A VOICE FROM THE SOUTH. 143 

"My lord," you said, "I weary 

Of the boy -god's flowery chains; 
Go woo some fairer blossom 

With your sweet and luring strains. 

"As for me, no echo lingers, 

From the hours that have gone b}-. 
That might send your asking spirit 
On this eve an answerino- siirh." 

So I thonght your lieart was frozen 

Nay, but stop, my petted bird; 
Tell me, ere you seek your chamber, 

Who your soul's deep fount has stirred. 

"0 sweet angels who are floating 

Round the great white throne above, 
Hear me as I breathe this sentence- 
It is Percy that I love! 

"In my heart's fair tropic island 
Are a thousand flowers in bloom, 
And for him like purest incense 
Rises up their rich perfume. 

"And if e'er my red lip's scorning 
On his brow has cast a shade, 
Now its holiest dew shall scatter 
All the gloom which erst it made." 

Blanche, my heart is very heavy; 

Drape the angel in thine eyes 
With thy broad lids' snowy curtains, 

Gentle bird of paradise. 



144 A VOICE FROM THE SOUTH. 

Looking out upon the starlight, 
The grand harvest of tha sk}', 

With no presence in the twilight 
Save my God, my grief, and I, 

Perchance some dreamy legend 

O'er the Past's dim tomb may swell, 

Glorious as the crowns which haloed 
The lost angels ere they fell. 

So my soul ma}' gather quiet. 
And, forgetful of its wrong. 

Fold its wings and drink nepenthe 
In the blessed land of sons:. 



"AS ARTLESS AS A CHILD." 



"As artless as a child!" The downward bending 

Of her pale lip returns a bitter "JSTo!" 
It is no girlish impulse which is sending 

From heart to cheek that deep and litfal glow. 
It is that she has learned a truer linking 

For words and tlioughts than that she studied o'er 
So long ago, when utterance and thinking 

Both the same meaning to her spirit bore. 
Around her brow there rests a golden glory 

Like the faint shadow of an angel's crown, 
Where ringlets bright as Hope's bewildering story 

Float, like the mists of sunset, softly down. 
Love seems with folded pinions sweetl}' dreaming. 

Nursed in the shadows of her violet eyes. 
And yet, alas! alas! it is but seeming; 

'T is Falsehood wears the boy -god's radiant guise. 



A VOICE FROM THE SOUTH. . 145 

"As artless as a childl" That low, rich laughter 

Rings out above her heart's wild wail of pain, 
And nothing earthly now can ever watt her 

The peaceful dreams of childish hours again. 
Like the rose-scented, seaward-roving breezes 

Which hover round the coast of Malabar, 
tier tone's soft witchery every spirit seizes. 

And leads it, captive in Love's chains, afar; 
Yet (cold iconoclast!) one picture only 

Of those in qhildhood crowned with rainljow-light 
Hangs in her bosom, desolate and lonely — • 

A star of beauty mid the gloom of night; 
And when j^outh's rose-tint from her cheek has faded, 

When age's silver glory crowns her brow. 
When sorrow's darkest mists her soul have shaded, 

Tliat one dear picture will be bright as now. 

"As artless as a child!" Alas! there lingers 

Within her bosom now but one fresh flower; - 
'T was planted by the blind god's fairy lingers, 

In autumn-time and at the twilight hour. 
The chill December watched its glorious blooming, 

And May's white-clouded, blue, caressing skies 
Still kept the vigil, and, at spring's entombing, 

Came for a guardian June's voluptuous ej^es. 
She whispers love-words to it when the fringes 

Which shade her eyes have curtained them to 
dreams, 
And kisses it when bright-haired morning tinges 

With golden shadows crystal-footed streams. 
Ah ! there are flowers whose laggard petals never 

Unfold, save o'er a century's dying hour; 
But none like this, whose radiance lasts forever — 

Eternity keeps watch above this flower! 

10 



146 A VOICE FROM THE SOUTH. 

A VALENTINE. 



Ah! gentle love-mate, can it be 

That thou hast yet one thought for me? 

Did not the midnight wail above 

The death-conch of another year 
But bear the memory of my love 

Still farther backward with his bier? 
My mate! my mate! how with that sound 
My spirit's pulses madly bound! 
How, as of yore, it floats away 
To greet thee on this bright-winged day, 
And claims its right, its regal bliss, 
The tribute of one burning kiss! 
Proud boon to press those lips of thine, 
As proud to be thy valentine ! 

My dearest love-mate, from my heart 
One wildering light shall ne'er depart; 
Yet never wild-bird longed to lave 

Its pinion in a crystal stream 
As I to hide within the grave 

Each vain, wild hope and wilder dream. 
But 0! I know they still will burn 
Undimmed within a funeral-urn. 
And from the shadows of the tomb 
Half snatch the folds of Ethiop gloom 
Still clasping closely to my breast 
This one sweet thought, I'll go to rest, 
Happy to know that Azrael's kiss, 
Cold though it be, will leave me this. 



A VOICE FROM THE SOUTH. 147 

Star of my soul! if with one thought 
Of me this sweet day's wing is fraught, 

ere it quiver into rest 

Upon tlie twihght's gentle breast, 
My soul shall worship at thy shrine, 
And thou shalt be my valentine! 

"But for one day?" Ali, miser! why 
Must this sweet dream so soon pass by? 
"Why must the shadow of the tomb 

So soon o'erslant its golden hght? 
Why must its strange and star-like bloom 

Be curtained by the lids of night? 
Yet this one day shall bear an age 
Of rapture written on its page; 
So when with stars it girds its brow 

1 shall be older far than thou, 
And in my heart Love's sibyl flame 
Shall twine forever round thy name 
A burning seal, a fiery sign 

That thou hast been my valentine! 



I LOVE THEE STILL. 



Long years have passed since thy bright eyes 
Beamed on me 'neath my native skies — 
Thy home and mine, where Love's first dream 
Fluns: crimson lifi^ht on life's dark stream. 
In other lands, by Grecian fanes, 
By ruins on Italian plains, 



J 18 A VOICE FROM THE SOUTH. 

Where slept tlie sunshine bright and warm, 

I still beheld thy imaged form, 

My boyhood's idol, manhood's pride, 

To all my dearest dreams allied. 

When fills the cup the rosy wine, 

The name I murmur still is thine; 

Still thine each throbbing heart-chord's thrill- 

I love thee still, I love thee still! 

i* There is no flower, no stream, no stone, 
But seems to claim thee as its own, 
But bears some strange and deep impress 
Of thy ideal loveliness. 
I think the breeze which stirs my hair 
Has swept across thy forehead fair, 
And love it better that its wing 
Has touched an unforgotten string; 
Tliat it has roused a music-tone 
Within a temple all thy own, 
And poured its incense at a shrine 
Where Love's pure blossoms ever twine. 
To thee the foaming cup I fill — 
I love thee still, I love thee still! 

Venetian halls are bathed in light, 
And revels wild we hold to-night; 
But queenly forms are moving there, 
With jewels wreathed amid their hair, 
And eyes of midnight's darkest shade 
Flash out beneath the ebon braid. 
Around the festal board we stand, 
The golden wine-cup in each hand; 



A VOICE FROM THE SOUTH. 149 

Loud rings tiie laugh, high swells the strain, 
And then — I think of thee again. 
Nor houri's face, nor diamond's light 
Can steal my thoughts from thee to-night. 
To thee anew the cup I fill — 
I love thee still, I love thee still! 

I have to-night lived o'er each hour 
That bound my spirit b}^ thy power, 
Yet striving still to hush the tone 
Which wooed me back to thee and home; 
Crushing the burning dreams of love 
With chains Ambition's fingers wove. 
Then, in despair that all but brought 
Thy image to my fevered thought, 
I raised the cup; but on the wine 
I saw thy sweet eves sadly shine — 
I heard thy luring accents roll 
As erst their music through my soul. 
Away! uo more the goblet fill — 
I love thee still, I love thee still! 

Again they come — wild forms and cries; 
O'er Jena's field the war-horse flies, 
And waving crests and helmets bright 
Are gleaming through the raging fight. 
I see Napoleon's banner raised 
Where Moscow's towers in ruin blazed, 
And now the crescent's crimson fold 
Streams out o'er casques embossed with gold; 
Yet there one tress of braided hair 
Seems resting like an earnest prayer. 



150 A VOICE FROM THE SOUTH. 

Away! I cannot bear thy tone, 
I dare not listen to thy moan ; 
I crush m}^ heart with iron will, 
Yet love thee still, 3'et love thee still! 

Strange that with Love and War should rise, 

With gloom and mirth, tliose dreamy eyes; 

That to the god of battle's wing 

Thy form, thy tresses dark, should cling; 

And that thy thin, white fingers twine 

Around the cup which holds the wine; 

That in the courts of princes flow 

Those accents musical and low; 

That shuddering, shrinking from, my chain, 

I weave its folds anew again. 

Long-left, long-loved! before thy trust 

Fame's brightest visions shrink to dust; 

And though wild dreams my spirit till, 

I love thee still, I love thee still! 

Once more the ruby-tinted cup 

By jeweled hands is lifted up, 

And feverish lips the goblet drain; 

But I — I seek my liome again. 

On Fame's proud field the laurel won 

I cannot, will not bear alone; 

For Glory's wreath but pales and dies 

Uncheered by light from loving eyes. 

I seek thee, love, still true at heart, 

Though years have swept us far apart; 

And thou ? — ah! have those bitter years, 

So stained by sin, so tracked by tears, 

Changed thee? I know, for good or ill, 

/love thee still, /love thee still! 



A VOICE FROM THE SOUTH. 151 

BABY ALLIE. 



Allie, my darling, your mamma says 

That you 've almost cut a tooth; 
Just whisper me now, in a quiet way, 

If it really is the truth. 
Is it so indeed, my baby-bird. 

With your soft and musical coo? 
And will you bite with your new-found pearls 

As the other children do? 

Are you learning the lesson that comes to us all 

When we grow more worldly-wise, 
When the angel crouches away from sight 

That smiles in a baby's eyes? 
Do you gather so early your weapons up, 

In the earth's fierce battle to light? 
My pet, be certain you always strike 

For the right instead of for might. 

You are far away, but the night-wind brings 

On its pinions a message from you; 
And it whispered me low that the most you said 

Was your usual "Goo-oo-oo!" 
Sleep, baby, and dream of the angels again; 
You are nearer to heaven than we — 
*'0f suchis His kingdom"— but smile while you 
dream, 
So a gleam of its light we may see. 



-f€v"^- 



152 A VOICE FROM THE SOUTH. 

NEVER AGAIN. 



" Wild wizard that stand'st by the fountain-side, 
With a 13're in thy hand and a look of pride, 
Bend o'er the charmed strings and read in the tone 
The fate of a heart, and that heart my own. 
May Hope fling flowers on the path of life. 
And dreams of love still the tempest's strife?" 
Sullen and mournful, his hand he pressed 
On the rusted harp by the wind caressed, 
And wild echoes fell like the winter rain. 
And a voice cried, "Never, O never again!" 

"Bend lower, strange minstrel, thy dark lyre above, 
Bid it send to my soul one murmur of love. 
Can I And a heart as true and as brave 
As his who sleeps in the cold, dark grave? 
Can another's glance and another's tone 
Be sweet as the echoes forever flown? 
And the light of love like a halo rest 
Where I fold my cares on another's breast?" 
But the voice broke forth in that mournful strain, 

"No, no! never, never again! 

"0 never again shall its ray be cast! 
That dream of love was th}' first and last; 
Thou may'st think, })erchance, that the heart is 

thine. 
Yet thy spirit will clasp an empty shrine. 
And the idol its depths has so fondly borne 
Will repay the worship with words of scorn. 



A VOICE FROM THE SOUTH. 153 

The smile thou hast loved, and the memories nursed, 
Will no more on thy fevered senses burst, 
And thy heart will shrink from the ceaseless strain 
Of 'No, no, no! O never again!'" 

"Once more, dark seer, and I break tlie spell 
For the sake of one who has loved me well: 
Had I in the cold, dark tomb been laid, 
Would he have sought for the myrtle-braid? 
No, never! I see that calm, proud smile; 
And how madl}' my spirit is thrilling the while! 
Will it never be absent, in tempest, in strife, 
In the land of dreams, on the sea of life?" 
And tlie strings swelled out in a trium})h-strain. 
And a voice cried, "Never, never again!" 



LIFE'S LESSONS, 



There is a lovel}' lady, dwelling in a lofty hall — 
In tlie midst of a great city rises up its marble wall; 
And the lady — the cold statues chiseled by the hand 

of art 
Form a sj-mbol for her beauty and a symbol for her 

heart. 
She has been a willing pupil where the best may go 

astray; 
She has studied well the part has been given her to 

play; 
She has learned what it were better she had never, 

never known — 
She has learned the world's cold lesson, learned to 

live for self alone. 



154 A VOICE FROM THE SOUTH. 

On last eve she crashed a spirit, hopeless, voiceless, 

to the dust — 
One who from youth had worshiped her with deep 

and holy trust. 
It may be there was a struggle — none but she can 

ever tell — - 
When from her perjured lips came forth a scarcely 

heard farewell ; 
But her jeweled lingers rested full as calmly on the 

door, 
Opened wide for her departing, ai- they ever did 

before; 
Her lip's red-coral curving bore no trace of deeper 

scorn 
Than it did at her awaking from her slumbers in 

the morn. 
3he has learned to veil the feelings she can never 

bid depart — 
To smile when tears are falling cold and heavy in 

her heart. 

Passed she from her princely palace with a step of 
regal pride, 

And along the flinty pathway saw a poor wayfarer 
glide; 

Yet beneath a blue-arched heaven, on a golden- 
vestured day, 

From the pleadings of that stricken one she coldl}' 
turned away; 

But if she like her were straying, homeless in the 
heavy dew. 

Then the shunned and weary straggler were the 
fairer of the two; 



A VOICE FROM THE SOUTH, 155 

And if pearls were softly banded in that lost one's 

streaming hair, 
She would grace proud marble palaces as well as 

any there. 
Yet within that lady's bosom lingers not a trace to 

tell 
Of her kinship to the angels and their pity's magic 

spell; 
She has learned to crush all mercy for the erring 

from her heart, 
To bid like chidden menials her kindly thoughts 

depart. 

Matters it to that proud lady if the fair and fragile 
form 

Spurned at even from her pathway walks unshel- 
tered in the storm? 

Matters it if the dark waters heave a corse upon the 
shore 

Which has thrilled with earthly passion a few fleet- 
ing hours before? 

AVhen wealth and beauty circle like a halo round 
her head. 

Should she, in all her brightness, sorrow for the 
nameless dead? 

O lady, lovely lady! life has many lessons yet — 

There is much for thee to learn, and much more 
thou must foriret. 






156 A VOICE FROM THE SOUTH. 

A SONG OF THE PAST. 



Sweet siiiging-bird of my lone, lone soul. 
Why groweth thy plunuige dim? 

"Why echo the aisles of my proud, sad heart 
No more with thy matin-hymn? 

Of old, when with many a legend quaint 
Rose thy song through the twilight hoars, 

I sat 'neath the bending of sweet rose-boughs, 
O'ershadowed by crimson flowers. 

Long years passed on, and the rose-tree died; 

But my heart is all aglow, 
And its flashing fountains lightward leap 

To the music of "long ago." 

O beautiful past! O sweet, sweet dreams! 

As 3'e rise like a soft refrain, 
The bird which has slept in my heart so long 

Has fluttered its wings again. 

"Once," runs its story, "where glows the grape 
On the 'beautiful, castled Rhine,' 
Swept down a sunset Avhose purple robes 
Seemed dripping with rosy wine; 

"And it crowned with gold the knightly hold 
(Ah! where is its glory now?). 
The hold tliat frowned in its stately pride 
On the river-clifl'".s rouo-h brow. 



A VOICE FROM THE SOUTH. 157 

"Fur down a winding pass uprose 
The notes of a warlike strain; 
To the castle-gates a lady sprung, 
As she caught the wild refrain. 

"Was it a triumph-song which swelled. 
Upborne by the summer gale? 
Or — but her lingers clutched her robe, 
As she heard the solemn wail. 

"They came; in their midst a war-horse, led 
With a mournful, reverent care, 
With lowered pennon, with trailing lance. 
And with forehead bent and bare. 

"There Avas many a stain on the bridle-rein. 
The housings were red with gore ; 
And she knew that a battle was lost and won, 
That her warrior's race was o'er. 

"And when another sunset swept 
O'er the 'beautiful, castled Rhine,' 
It lay like a crown on the icy brow 
Of the Lady Geraldine." 




'li^*** 



158 A VOICE FROM THE SOUTH. 

TOGETHER, YET APART. 



He gave me all he had to give — 

His hand, but not his lieart; 
And so we live — one name, one home — 

Together, yet apart. 

He fills my room with costly gifts — 

M}^ life is like a dream 
Where flashing fountains. Eastern flowers, 

And marble statues gleam. 

Ah me! amid the empty pomp 

"With aching heart I rove; 
I asked it not — alas! alas! 

Can he not give me love? 

And so, amid the twilight gloom, 

I stifle down the throbs 
Of my sick heart — they else would load 

The air with stormy sobs. 

Could he but guess; but no, but no — 

A woman should not speak 
Beneath such wrong; man should not know 

Her heart can be so weak. 

Well, life is short; and yet how long 

In woe! No earthly pain 
Can last forever; so I sit and watch 

Alone the star-gleams wane. 



A VOICE FROM THE SOUTH. 159 

While laying to my heart this balm: 

It will be over soon; 
My life has blossomed fast — 'twill fade 

Ere its sun reaches noon. 

Perhaps when violets bloom, 

And pale, sweet blossoms blow 
Around my grave, he '11 sadly say, 
"Poor girl! I wronged her- so. 

"I wonder if she missed 

My love? Could she not live, 
So crowned with wealth, without the heart 
Which was not mine to srive?" 



to' 



Then, summer blossoms, speak! 

Winds, voice this bitter woe; 
Seas, mirror back my woman's soul, 

And answer for me, '■'■No!'' 



A WASTED LIFE-TIME. 



"A WASTED life-time?" Answer thou, 
O clarion voice of song! 
Speak for the li[)S so speechless now — 
Unsay the bitter wrong! 

Say thou, although he left unwon 

The laurel which he might have worn, 

Was any needful task undone, 

Or household burden left unborne? 



100 A VOICE FROM THE SOUTH. 

He was an eagle born, they sa}'^, 
Yet stooped beneath his lofty state 

To walk with sons of meaner clay, 
And songht amid their ranks a mate. 

Well, God knows best. Maud Mullers still 
Blossom beside life's dusty way, 

And passion with imperial will 

Bows down a better judgment's nay. 

But write in honor of his name 

That, having won, he kept his prize; 

Unlike some others, seeking fame 
And fortune under foreign skies. 

He once had dreams — does poet live 

Who can say less? He laid them down. 

And faced his fate. This earth can give 
No prouder monument or crown. 

The weight of sordid, petty care. 

Which sours the heart and wears the brain, 

He lifted with a patience rare 

Which almost drew the sting from pain. 

And still, though warped and bent with toil. 
There were a few who knew his worth. 

For he was never less than royal. 
His heart was knightly as his birth. 

Whether he wisely chose or not. 
We bur}^ question in his tomb; 

Above him, O sweet violets, blot 

Life's bitter menu)ries with your bloom! 



A VOICE FROM THE SOUTH. 161 

And tliou, deep voice of deathless song, 
Born where eternal rainbows play, 

Bind on the brow discrowned so long 
The poet's well-won wreath of bay. 



MEMENTOS. 



I AM wooing back old memories of life's fair summer 

bloom — 
Alas that half the golden linkslie buried in the tomb! 
Alas that of the fragments I may gather up but few 
Which arc not wet with tear-drops, overshadowed 

by the yew ! 
Yet with a strange, wild madness I would breathe 

upon the chain, 
AVhich like the Magi's glass calls up the dreams of 

old again, 
And by my side — dared I but raise that casket's 

silver lid — 
Mementoes, gifts by pulseless hands, like sacred 

things lie hid. 
Which, if I took them from their rest, would rouse 

this sleeping soul, 
Which day and night o'er buried hopes sends out 

its solemn toll — 
Like tlie boll which o'er the wrecked ship swings, 

struck by the ocean-wave. 
And peals its measured knell above the mariner's 

sea-gravo. 
11 



162 A VOICE FRO 31 THE SOUTH. 

With pale and icy fingers that tremble in their hold, 
1 draw forth from their casket those mementoes 

worn and old. 
Myriad memories of sorrow in my spirit rise and 

fall 
As one by one the broken links obe}' the wailing 

call. 
One is a jeweled likeness, and I bow my weary head 
Upon the cherished image of the loved, the early 

dead. 
Ah ! that lip of hanghty beanty might call forth a 

scnlptor's skill, 
The grace so pnre and mystical a painter's soul 

might fill. 
And that brow of girlish whiteness with its super- 
human gleam, 
And the curved and drooping eyelids, wake a poet's 

wildest dream, 
Alas! those midnight eyes, with their melancholy 

gloom. 
Went down to deeper darkness, the strange dark- 
ness of the tomb; 
And the last, last kiss I printed upon that marble 

brow 
Cast a chill upon my pale lips which has not left 

them now. 
Wild dreamer! Glorious poet! The clasp of thy 

damp hand 
Half bore my soul with thine to the vales of "Silent 

Land."" 



A VOICE FROM THE SOUTIT. 163 

And the cold breath from the portals on my droop- 
ing tresses blew, 

As side by side, and soul by soul, we breathed a last 
adieu. 

I have lifted up a ringlet of a pale and lustrous gold; 
Ah, how many dim remembrances sleep in the wavy 

fold! 
For while the thick-starred sky of life bore yet a 

glorious hue. 
You bade me, friend of girlhood, keep the silken 

band for you. 

how I long on that white brow my quivering lip 

to press, 
And pour my fainting spirit out in one wild, sad 

caress ! 
Though to a brighter aviary now thou dost belong. 
Bird of a Southern climate, how my heart pines for 

thy song! 
Ah! back again, bright ringlet; sweet image, to thy 

nest — 
This hand shall ne'er again in life disturb that holy 

rest. 

1 shrine the memories in m}^ soul, and close the 

portals fast. 
Turning to the shrouded future from the darkness 
of the past. 



"' .' ' • -^ 'r^&!=^v o '-:. o :: o : . ' — -*^^ 



164 A VOICE FROM THE SOUTH. 

"DID YOU EVER LOVE A SPIRIT?" 



Did yo-u ever love a spirit? 

Ever image in your dreams 
A form as bright as starlight 

And as fleeting as its gleams, 
While love-words on the air arose 

Like music's sweetest strain, 
Which, when they quivered in your soul. 

Were echoed back again? 

Did you ever watch the sunset. 

And your soul within its glow 
Gather fancies fair as angels. 

Softly flitting to and fro. 
And stealing down from each cloud-isle 

AVith crest and helm of gold. 
Came armies stately in their march 

As from some castle-hold? 

Did you ever in the twilight 

Listen to the wind's low tone, 
And think it bore from some high heart 

A message to your own? 
Bore from some soul whose altar-fires 

Were pure as those above 
An answering peal of melody, 

A burning vow of love? 

Did you ever in the night-time, 

When the stars burned bright and clear, 
Feel a haunting presence round you. 

And a watching spirit near, 



A VOICE FROM THE SOUTH. 105 

"While each soft breeze that stirred the air 

Aroused a thrill of bliss, 
And stamped upon yonr fevered cheek 

A gentle angel-kiss? 

And then, amid the holy calm 

Which hushed each pulse to sleep, 
Bid you ever strive a memory 

Of that blessed hour to keep, 
Yet feel it fading from your soul 

Like a star from morning's sky. 
Till, half its light and beauty gone. 

It floated swiftly by? 

I have loved a glorious spirit, 

An impassioned, haughty form, 
"Whose eyes flash through the darkness 

Like the lightning through a storm; 
And the glowing fires of genius. 

In wild, volcanic light. 
Burn upon a marble forehead 

Clasped by locks as dark as night. 

And I meet this radiant presence 

In the sweet perfume of flowers. 
In the wind's ^Eolian melody. 

In the blest twilight hours; 
In the still, lone midnight watches 

On my slumbering soul it gleams, 
And I long to meet embodied 

The bright spirit of my dreams. 



16G A VOICE FROM THE SOUTH. 

"TRUST NOT." 



Trust not what men sa}', sweetest friend Cbrystabel ! 

There's no faith in the words of a lover — 
He is true for the moment, but O who may tell 

O'er w^hat bloom next the false one may hover? 
Golden ringlets, bright eyes, and the w^reath of a smile 

May draw forth his warmest devotion, 
And in their soft light he may bask for awhile. 

Till his heart thrills with some new emotion. 

Trust not what he says: with each breath of the wind 

The aspen's light foliage flutters. 
Sweet friend, thus an emblem for men you may find — 

Believe not a word that he utters. 
The honey-bee hovers o'er many a rose^, 

And sips from the lily its sweetness; 
The river drinks many a rill as it goes 

To find in the ocean completeness. 

Trust not what he says: I mean only in love — 

For that fire all his oaths are fit fuel; 
Doubt his word in aught else, and, by all that 's above, 

He would shoot his best friend in a duel. 
Give love- word for love-word, but guard your heart 
well. 

Bar the portals on every emotion; 
For, distrust as you may, there's a magical spell 

Hid e'en in this seemins; devotion. 



A VOICE FROM THE SOUTH. 167 

Trust not what he says — for he 'cl swear by the hour, 

If 'twere but for the pleasure of swearing; 
A heart lightly w^on, like the breath of a flower, 

Is counted not worthy the wearing. 
Believe not — yet O there's an ocean of bliss 

When love-dreams the spirit are heaving! 
So risk not by doubt the keen pleasure of this — 

Be not faithless, sweet friend, but believing. 



THOU HAST BOWED BEFORE ANOTHER SHRINE. 



Tiiou hast bowed before another shrine, and striven 

thy heart to fill 
With Passion's glowing imagery, but I — I love thee 

still. 
Not with the wild idolatry which thou perchance 

may'st win — 
Far deeper, purer is the flame which glows my soul 

within ; 
A worship which, though fathomless as worship e'er 

may be. 
Could stoop not in its lofty pride to ask one thought 

from tliee. 
If other lips than mine may aljsolve thee from each 

vow, 
If other tones enchain thee, O what art thou to me 

now? 
The rose-leaves scattered on the ground no more 

regain their glow, 
The heart's deep fountain once unsealed no alien 

touch may know, 



168 A VOICE FROM THE SOUTH. 

The wind-swept harp, its music gone, no more re- 
calls the strain — 

I've loved as I but once could love, I ne'er may love 
agai n . 

The chain of our betrothal was unlinked by thine 
own hand; 

If Elysium bears another, thou alone may'st clasp 
the band. 

The gleam which fell from Aidenn on the Peri's 

drooping wings 
Could not touch with such a radiance the heart- 
harp's thrilling strings 
As thy worship when thy spirit found its truest 

home with mine, 
And thoughts like lamps were burning sweetest 

incense at thy shrine. 
Then, like the sun's first gleaming on the Orient's 

burning brow, 
The portals softly opened which are barred and 

bolted now; 
And priests beside the altar stood with banners wide 

unfurled. 
And soaring anthems welcomed thee within that 

hidden world. 

Couldst thou look within my frozen soul, and in its 

humbled pride 
Read how fair its buried visions, and how bitterly 

they died, 
Thou wouldst wonder if the rusted harp might 

Ijreathe another strain, 



A VOICE FROM THE SOUTH. 169 

If the dreams so pale and stony conld arise in life 

again. 
But when that love which, star-like, gems with 

hurning light thy sky 
Has left thee crouched in sorrow on the cold, damp 

ground to die; 
When the hands like snow-white doves which now 

tremble in thine own 
Bird-like have claimed their freedom, to another 

clasp have flown; 
When Passion in its worn-out swell has sobbed 

itself to rest, 
Thy weary soul will turn to mine and seek its first- 
built nest. 
And then a burst of melody will thrill upon- the air. 
The buried visions rise again to seek a brighter lair, 
The long chained dreams in glory from their bitter 

bondage start. 
And soaring anthems Avelcome thee anew within 

my heart! 



A GIFT OF FLOWERS. 



Sweet souls of fragrance, robed in bloom, 

Be yours tlie task to weave a chnin 
Of thoughts as rare as e'er took wing 

From poet-heart, or poet-brain. 
Lo! Flora's glowing telegram 

Like lightning speeds o'er mystic lines, 
And, framed in pure electric-light, 

AVithin thy soul the message shines! 



170 



.1 VOICE FROM THE SOUTH. 



TO 



I NEVER have met thee, O sweetest! and yet, 

As a beautiful star iu the night-heaven set 

Flings down its pure light in some blue-bosomed 

stream, 
So in my soul's fountain there rests a dear gleam. 
'T is but a faint shadow, bright sjurit, of tliee; 
If the !<ha(fotr is glorious, what must the truth be? 

They say thou art lovely — that in thy gray eyes 
Deep feelings are flashing, wild fancies arise; 
And thus I have inuiged thee, thrilling and warm. 
Within my souTs mirror now trembles thy form, 
As I gaze on each lineament, on the strange grace 
Which breathes fr()m each act and looks out fi-oni 
thy face. 

As we turn to the perfume from flower-buds unseen, 
As our thoughts turn to loved ones the blue sea 

between, 
So I cherish thy picture; and in the still night. 
When on heaven's deep azure the eve-star grows 

bright, 
^[y thoughts fly to thee, as in summer's sweet hours 
They fly to bird-music, to stars, and to flowers. 



^^^^U-^ 

..-6^^ 



A VOICE FROM THE SOUTH. 1 7 1 

THE LEPER'S CHILD. 



Daughter of Judab's race, thine eye is bright; 

Thy red lip's beautiful and scornful curl 
Regnant with pride; thy heart is free and light 

In its first blooming, O most radiant girl ! 
Alas that bitterness and gloom must now 
Shadow the whiteness of thy pure young brow! 

Xo more amid those purple-gleaming bowers, 
Draped with the Orient's many-tinted dyes, 

Tiich with the [)erfume of a thousand flowers, 
Will in calm slumljer droop thy dreamy eyes. 

Listen, O Zara, ere my brain grows wild I 

A curse is on thee — t/ioi.i ''rt the leper's child! 

My own sweet one, Gehazi's awful sin 

Is clinging to tliee. Ere one fleeting year 

Its loathsome crust will whiten o'er thy skin; 
Sav^e to me only, thou wilt be a fear, 

A form of dread, to every passer-by; 

There now is nothing for thee but to die! 

Zara, sweet June was in her depth of bloom 
On thy first birthday ere I knew that he 

Round whom my love was circling like perfume 
Bore the dread curse which soon will rest on thee, 

While I, calm, careless, like a dew-bent flower. 

Slept, all unconscious of this horrid liour. 

A whirlwind swept my .dreams. His crimson li[»s 
Were wooing thine with Love's sweet honey-dew, 

And his proud eyes lay half in sad eclipse 

Beneath the lids which veiled their midniuht hue. 



172 A VOICE FROM THE SOUTH, 

The air was heavy with his grief. He said, 
"Young, bright, and sinless, better were slie dead, 

"Dead ere" — O let me veil the words which came 
To coil like fiery adders in my breast. 

And from his parched lips burst like gusts of flame! 
Zara, forgive him, now he is at rest; 

But while life's pulses in thy bosom glow, 

O never curse another Avith thy woe 

As I have thee! Cast Love's, sweet poison by; 

It was distilled for other lips than thine, 
And had I known how soon its bliss would fly. 

Its venom never would have moistened mine; 
Then, my soul's idol, veil thy pure young face 
And die, the last of an accursed race ! 



EOLINE. 

There is a spirit of the breeze, 

A wild and dreamy thing. 
Like the form which ancient legends say 

liests on the wind-harp's string. 
Where a wreath of heavy verdure 

Round the anticpie casement climbs. 
Pillowed in among the roses, 

Murmurs she her sweetest rhymes; 
And then with waving pinions, 

Like a willful child at play, 
As I strive to catch the S3dlables, 

Still singing, floats away. 



A VOICE FROM THE SOUTH. 173 

Dared I but breathe a title 

For a presence so divine, 
I would cross m}' hands in silence, 

And would whisper "Eoline." 

Sovereign of the summer breezes. 

Bend thy regal forehead down; 
For the songs which thou hast taught me 

I will wreathe for thee a crown ; 
And a name of dream-like melody 

Shall be forever thine, 
A name, like thee, of music — 

Hail, sceptered Eoline! 
Waking, I have never imaged thee, 

But in the dreaming land 
I have bent my lips in homage 

On a slender, snow-white hand, 
While a form of witching beauty 

Softly glided through the air. 
Shrouded in a misty avalanche 

Of rippling, golden hair. 

Once, so say the ancient legends, 

Where, npon tlie "castled Rhine," 
Float the sunbeams robed in purple 

Through tlie clusters of the vine. 
Rose a ruin proud and stately. 

From whose gates in times of old 
Flashed full many a knightly pennon, 

Rich with broidery of gold. 
Within, the purple tapestries 

Swept dowi>\vard to the floors. 



174 A VOICE FROM THE SOUTH. 

Massive wreaths of ancient carvins: 

Formed the frame-work of the doors; 
Rust had gathered on the armor 

Hanging in the vaulted hall; 
Dust lay thick upon the pictures 

Leaning back against the wall; 
On the velvet-covered couches 

Scarce!}' gleamed the tarnished gold, 
And heavy on their crimson 

Buried years had scattered mold. 

One room alone was tenanted, 

Or pressed by mortal foot, 
For within the moldering turrets 

Rose the owlet's solemn hoot; 
You could see hjs solemn eyes 

From amid the ivy glare, 
You could hear his muffled flutter 

Echoed down the marble stair; 
And there, with soul as weird 

And as decaying as those towers, 
A pallid form above a lute 

Bent trancedly for hours. 

Ilis chamber, with the strange 

And costly ornaments it bore, 
Seemed like an incarnation 

Of the dreams of fiiiry lore; 
Time on its proud magnificence 

Had left no mildew stain — 
It had slept through hoary ages, 

And now woke to life as-ain. 



A VOICE FROM THE SOUTH. 175 

Is it strange, with such surroundings, 
That the minstrel imaged forms 

Borne alike on waves of sunshine 
And upon the hreath of storms? 

When the breezes, swooping heavily 

Like wild-birds on their pre\-, 
Wandered round the crumbling parapets 

Through all the gloom}- day, 
"They have journeyed from the Xorland," 

Moaned he wearily. "How long. 
Spirits from the halls of Odin, 

Ere I read your mythic song?" 
When amid the clustered ivy, 

Beneath summer's sunny skies. 
The genii of the South 

Were breathing forth their perfumed si«>-hs. 
Weary of the changeful music 

He could never understand. 
Still drooped his blue-veined temple 

(Raven-shaded) on his hand; 
From time to time like serpents 

Writhed his ashy lips apart — 
You could count beneath the velvet 

All the throbbings of his heart; 
And, where the costly vesture 

On his heaving bosom lay. 
His fingers strove convulsively 

To tear the folds away. 

One eve the wind swept softly o'er 

The sweet ^olian strings. 
And there in the dim moonlight stood. 

With half unfolded wings," 



176 A VOICE FROM THE SOUTH. 

The form which in his visions 
lie had vainly wooed so long — 

The spirit of his dreams, 

The wild embodiment of song. 

Thrilled her words like far-off music — ■ 
"Minstrel, it is Eoline 

Whose soul at dreamy even-tide 
Flies forth to blend with thine." 

From that hour, with every twilight 

Softly floating through the gloom 
Came the bright yet shadowy presence 

To the minstrel's lonely room; 
And from night to night he lingered 

Passion-fettered by her side, 
Striving with his maddened prayers 

To win a spirit for his bride. 

"Thou hast conquered," sighed the vision; 
"0 beloved one! I resign 
My home within air's palaces 

Of amethyst for thine; 
But when thou wooest thy harp to breathe 

For thee another strain, 
I leave thee for the loft}^ courts 

Of my own wide domain. 
Woe for thee when thou boholdest 

The unfurling of my wing. 
For thy destiny lies folded 

In a wind-har[)*s broken string!" 



A VOICE FROM THE SOUTH. 177 

Passed the months away in sweetness, 

Like the perfume of the flowers — 
Tranced happiness ne'er wakes to count 

The flying of the hours. 
More gohlen seemed the sunlight, 

And the draperies swept the floor 
With a do})th of pur[)le shadow 

They had never worn hefore. 
And less ghostly came the hooting 

Of the owlet on the breeze, 
As he sat amid the ivy 

Clinging to the hoary trees. 

Ah, that dreams mnst have a waking! 

Dimly in the minstrel's mind 
There came a haunting consciousness, 

A wish but half defined. 
He was pining for sweet music 

With a wild and feverish thirst — 
He would breathe his life away to hear 

But once the tones of erst. 
"Spirits of the air," ho murmured, 
"Speak, speak to me again! 
Lnll my senses all to slumber 

With a soft and dreamy strain." 

Wild swelled the saddened melody 

Throughout the vaulted hall. 
As the strings gave back an echo 

To his passion-breathing call; 
But a broken chord was wailing 

In the fitful gusts of air 



178 A VOICE FROM THE SOUTH. 

AYhich lifted from his pallid brow 
The curls of raven hair: 

Death came with the unfurling 
Of his bride's unearthly wing — 
^ He had paid with life the forfeit 
Of the wind-harp's broken string! 



THEY SAY." 



"TiiEY say" I've bowed beneath the spell 

Of Passion's fire-forged chain, 
And that my harp may never swell 

With wild, free sound again. 
"They sa}'" I murmur in my sleep 

Of fancies wild and strange; 
That in Love's rub}^ corridor 

From morn till night I range; 
That in my dreams with starry eyes 

And forms of light I stray; 
Yet these, alas! are but a few 

Of many things "they say." 

O strange, and beautiful, and bright 

Are the wild thoughts which sweep. 
Like stars around the throne of night. 

Through the dim halls of Sleep! 
Floats not upon spring breezes by 

A happier spirit's chime. 
Throbs not beneath this blue May sky 

A heart more free than mine: 



A VOICE FROM THE SOUTH. 179 

And ill tliat gorgeous land of dreams, 

At twilight when I stray, 
There's naught that bears a semblance to 

The many things "they say." 

"They say," and "say," and "say" again; 

Yet I, a dreamer still. 
My soul in Fancy's dim domain 

With strange, weird visions till. 
And O! Avithin those liaunted halls 

I clasp full many a hand; 
Soft on my fevered forehead falls 

The moonlight's silver band. 
Wild, Avild and free, unheeding all, 

With those bright thoughts I stray, 
And know not, or, if knowing, care 

But little, what "they say."" 

"They say" the burning words which spring 

Like wild-birds from my breast 
Are but the waving of a wing 

That thrills with deep unrest; 
That my soul's fountain echoes now 

But with a broken strain; 
That a dark shadow veils my brow 

And I have loved in vain. 
But, though I 've gazed on many a brow. 

Where Love's dear light might stray, 
My spirit yet has never bent, 

I care not what "they say." 



1 80 A VOICE FROM THE SOUTH. 

EIGHTY-TWO. . 



In narrowing circles sweep the years, 
And who may say them nay? 

Kot e'en a monarch's power can hold 
Remorseless Time at bay. 

From brow, and cheek, and eye, alike, 
Youth's gleaming light departs. 

And often cold and tireless leaves 
The altars in our hearts. 

But Time, although his touch has turned 
Thy once dark locks to gvay. 

Has brought thy children here to greet 
Once more th}^ natal day. 

Ten upon earth, and one above, 
The links in Love's bright chain — 

Still burn they clear, and woo thee back 
To dreams of youth again. 

Good-by must come — for earth, alas! 

Is not a paradise; 
Beyond the far eternal hills 

Alone are no good-bys. 






A VOICE FROM THE SOUTH 181 

MONSIEUR L' ANONYMOUS. 



Is it wisdom, I wonder, to "throw a sop 
To Cerberus?" Ah! I sometimes think 

AVhen to shmder by silence we lend a prop, 
We earn the bitter brewage we drink. 

For the three-headed dog that sits at the gate 
Of Hades, remorseless to foes and to friends 

Alike, only cares his foul hunger to sate, 

And wolf-like turns on those who feed liim and 
rends. 

Hark! hear his quick bark! A fair girl is the prey, 
Or a gentle young wife — -does it matter to him 

Who goes to the wall, who is driven to bay. 

What hearts writhe in anguish, what bright eyes 
grow dim? 

A light word and sneer, or a white page turned black 
With a web of foul words signed with never a name, 

Traced by some base coward who covers his track, 
And from its high shrine falls some woman's fair 
fame. 

A hearth-stone grows cold, and for what? — "Ay 
de mi," 

That some lying lip, through a lie of the pen. 
Unscathed may spit venom — a hand none can see 

Strike ])lows in the darkness again and again. 

All brave men and women fiice squarely the light, 
With outspoken praise, or with outspoken blame; 

Only cowards stab thus in the darkness of niuht, 
With a blank for a dagger instead of a name. 



182 A VOICE FROM THE SOUTH. 



TO A BEAUTIFUL LADY. 

There arc dreams of glowing beauty, like the tints 

on India's sky, 
Which linger on the horizon when Night's broad 

wing sweeps by; 

When the stars in undimrned glorj^ on a midnight 

altar burn. 
And thoughts as pure as they to the weary heart 

return; 

When the eye drinks in their glor}' as the parched 

flowers drops of rain. 
And earth seerns an unblotted page, life one glad 

music-strain ; 

But my dearest dreams are day-dreams, my brightest 

visions rise 
Ere the heavy dews of slumber have weighed down 

my drooping eyes. 

I think of thee, sweet lady — of thy gentle, bird-like 

tone, 
Like the wind-har[)'s touching murmur, when the 

breeze calls up its moan ; 

Thy brow of holy beauty, and th}' dark hair's shin- 
ing band. 

And grace such as we image for the forms of fairy- 
land. 



A VOICE FROM THE SOUTH. 183 

Like a palm-tree in the desert, like a star upon the 

sky, 
Like a blossom in the wilderness, the South wind 

passing by, 

Like all things pure and lovely, thy image finds its 

rest 
U[)on the liolicst altars I have reared within my 

breast. 



A-MIGNONNE, 



One even old Time ^^■reathed anew a bouquet. 
And he twined it with blooms that were sweetest; 

But of all the sweet buds, be they sweet as they may, 
Thou, my love, art the l)h)ssom completest; 

For the soul in thy face rises iiashiiigly up. 

Like the fresh fount of water in Tantalus's cup. 

Poor Tantalus! T, while I look on the vase 

Whore those heart-gushing waters are swelling. 

Would ask in their tem[ile an altar to raise. 
And as priest there to take up my dwelling: 

What say'st thou, Ma-Migiionne'? a home so divine 

Might hallcMv a worldlier spirit tlian mine. 

In dreams I have bent before forms full as fair. 
And I'aved over li]ts wreathed in loveliest smiles; 

But all hicked the soul-charm, earth's je^vel most rare. 
And the sweet na'ive words were but well-studied 
wiles. 

I pledge thee my faith — let eternity mete 

The treasure of love I pour out at thy feet! 



184 A VOICE FROM THE SOUTH. 

MY DREAMS. 



DEDICATED TO MR. J. L. JAMES. 

They call me a strange dreamer, cherished friend, 
And say that fancies wayward as the sweep 
Of the strong midnight winds infold my soul. 
Perchance 'tis true — perchance too oft my heart 
Builds up an altar to the loved of earth, 
As now to thee. 

O thou art kind and true! 
Would that upon tliis earth more kindred hearts 
To thine might send the incense of pure thought 
Up the blue steeps of heaven, as the flowers 
Breathe forth rich perfume to the evening wind. 

wilt thou listen while I whisper low 

Of the dread visions which twine 'round my sleep 
Their cold, sepulchral arms? Will sympathy 
From thy high soul blend with their feverish flow? 

1 stray in a dark dream-land, not like those 
Who wander off in Night's enchanted realm. 
And weave of visions gathered in those hours 
A tissue like the hues of fairy-land. 

I never roam amid the scenes of old 

To bathe my soul in fancies wild and dim 

As the dark depths of strange, deep cavern-homes. 

Where thought builds up weird temples, and in- 

shrines 
Presiding genii of the haunted throne, 
Fantastic images of light and shade; 



A VOICE fhom the south 185 

I linger not in dreams within the clime 

Of love and romance, knight and troubadour, 

Of pure, clear moonlight, and of low, sweet songs; 

Yet if I dared unfold my prisoned soul, 

The strange, wild bird which dwells within my 

breast. 
Beating its wings with ever-ceaseless sound 
Against the cage-bars which restrain its flight, 

what bright waves of joy and light would roll 
Around its upward way! and how amid 

The glorious coronal which crowns the South, 
How it would flutter I 

But it may not fly — 
May not unlink one clasp of the strong chain 
Which holds it fettered. O! in other years 

1 thought that life was one glad music-strain — 
A page which bore no blot to cloud its light. 
Where are my early pictures? where the flowers 
With which I wreathed the future? Is this lip. 
So cold and passive now, the very same 

That childliood gemmed with an unsorrowing smile? 

The eye which looks out proudly on the w^orld, 

As if it never had been dimmed with tears — 

AVliere has it found its calmness? Has the lieart 

Sealed up forever its baptismal font? 

O! have its wild, deep waters ceased to flow? 

The shadowy curtain which infolds the past 

Rolls slowly up; and hours undimmed by grief, 

Like angel-wings, sweep over Memory's sea. 

Child-like my spirit wanders off amid 

The flowers which ffem the Eden thus invoked. 



186 A VOICE FROM THE SOUTH. 

O they were beautiful — those pure, briglit hours! 

Hours all unworldly, hours of girlish thought, 

When each emotion that called up a tone 

On the soul's harp but woke a thrill of bliss. 

Which of the fragile wires that echoed tlien 

Is now unniildewed with the rusted stain 

I'hat tear-drops leave behind? O can it be 

That the wild, Avayward being who pours forth 

Each tide of feeling is the girlish thing 

That once wove garlands on the green hill-sides 

When June's deep azure sk}^ o'erarchod the world? 

Then, soft as rose-leaves folding u[) to sleep, 

The dews of slumber stole upon my eyes. 

And blossoms rich and heavy with perfume 

Sprang u[» arouinl me in that fairy-world. 

The sky was deejily blue; the clouds which swept 

Their snowy folds across it were as pure 

As the reflection of a seraph-smile; 

The forms which gathered round me were so fair. 

And to their low, sweet murmured words of song 

My full soul sent responsive echoes back. 

Now they are gone, and stranger, wilder dreams 
Wrap their dark mantle round my throbbing heart. 
The last weird vision which, in cerements cold. 
Palsied my pulses, chills my spirit still. 
It was at midnight — 0! I sliuclder now 
When I recall the phantom lights which shone 
Like livid meteors through that dreadful night. 
A foaming river hurried surging b}', 
And the white wreaths upon its flashing waves 
Gleamed like a bird-wine: throuirh a horrid storm. 



A VOICE FROM THE SOUTH. 187 

On the rough bank in that Hepnlchral glare 

I slowly wandered. Bending by my side, 

Each heart-throl) mingling with my own, there stood 

A hanght}- form; Ijut O I dared not tnrn 

My npward gaze to those dark, radiant e^-es! 

I knew they rested on my drooping form. 

And felt tbe loving tenderness the}' spoke; 

Yet they were full of sadness, and my sonl 

C'anght u[) the icy chill which closely clung 

To those proud features. 

Then a mist as damp 
As the cold dew of death arose and rolled 
Its leaden folds between us, and our hands 
Slowly unlinked their clasp. Then one by one 
Tiie quivering heart-chords sundered, and I heard 
Their low and wailing music sluidder up. 

in tliat awful stillness I could hear, 

So painfully distinct, each faint, quick thrill! 
And then I woke and laid my aching head 
In the uiglit-air to cool its maddened throl)s, 
And passed my fingers thi-ongh the heavy braids 
Which hung around my form in drooping folds. 
Night with her star-gemmed wing has clasped the 

world, 
And now, as when awaking from that sleep, 

1 bathe my fevered pulses in her calm. 

O that that calm may breathe upon my soul, 
And fling afresh around it all the light 
Which through my girlish visions gently stole! 



A VOICE FROM THE SOUTH. 



AN EASTER CARD. 



FOR VIDA, 



In the garden of the angels, 
In the land so far away, 
Where the breezes all are balmy 
With the soul of deathless May, 
Walks the Master every day. 

There great golden-hearted lilies 
Throb out billows of perfiinie; 
In the rose-bud's fragrant bosom 
Hide the crimson lips of June, 
Whispering promises of bloom. 

There is a strange, sweet legend, 
Won I know not from what clime. 
But it thrilled within my spirit 
Like a fountain's silver chime, 
Till it rippled into rhyme. 

It is, that for each blossom 

In that land of fadeless flowers 

Its synonym is growing, 

Lured, to sweeten homes of ours,- 

From the far Elysian bowers. 

So you dropped, living rose-ljud! 
Softlj^ wafted by the hand 
Of "the Master," from the garden 
Where your guardian angels stand, 
Tlirougli the gates of spirit-land. 



A VOICE FROM THE SOUTH. 189 

Yon must not forget your lineage, 
Ere your radiant pinions grow, 
But kee[) them fair and smirehless 
As Nevada's breast of snow, 
While you linger here below. 

So when upward you have floated, 
All the angels then will say, 
"Master, lo, the little baby 
That you sent so far away 
Stands among us here to-day." 



LE ROI EST MORT; VIVE LE ROI! 



Raven-winged Midnight, sobbing o'er the bier 
AVliich holds another pale and dying year, 
How sorrowful and deep thy echoes rise 
Beneath the awful stillness of the skies! 
How like a train of mourners past a tomb 
Sweep the bright constellations through the gloom! 
And the weird night-wind links its solemn swell 
With the vibrations of that "passing-bell!" 

The dying year! How beautiful and strong 
Twelve moons ago arose his matin-song ! 
And as his hand unlinked the prisoned hours. 
Crowned like 3'oung brides with Hope's most fra- 
grant flowers. 
Few hearts looked backward to the grave where lay 
Hopes which were once as bright and sweet as they. 



190 A VOICE FROM THE SOUTH. 

True, Lov^e had wept l)eside a broken shrine, 
But there were garhmds full as fair to twine; 
And if the buds had lost their freshest bloom, 
The opened flowers exhaled more rich perfume. 
Unhoh' cheat! Love's bond once rent in twain, 
No hand of earth can join the links again; 
Elysium's lily-fields alone can roll 
A Lethean odor round the fainting soul ! 

The dying year! Ere gleameth cold and white 

Another grave-stone through the depths of night. 

Ere the dim past has caught the death-bell toll. 

And traced his name upon its Titan scroll. 

Let every spirit gather to its shrine 

The bright earth-dreams which made its life divine. 

Love's choicest treasures, rose-wjnged hopes and 

fears. 
Its tears and sunshine, should not die with years, 
While Memory's heaven its golden gate unbars, 
And its soft sky has room for other stars; 
While angel-thoughts sweep o'er the soul-harp's 

strings. 
To chide its sadness — music-moving wings — 
Ah! let each spirit bind a mingled sheaf, 
And twine the myrtle with the cypress-leaf. 

Then bid Remembrance hold a lamp to-night. 
To show the Past's dim characters aright; 
For though its pale and holy rays may shine 
On many a world-stained page and blotted line, 
It still illumines Glory's rainbow gleams. 
And diadems earth's rarest, dearest dreams. 



A VOICE FROM THE SOUTH. 191 

The d3-ing year! To some bright brows he gave 
A bridal-crown, to others but a grave. 
In many souls life's "Tooba-tree" is dead, 
And broken hearts lie thick beneath his tread. 
Wail they his requiem, bear his shadowy bier, 
For Love and Hope must hail the coming year! 

Thick fall the shadows ! Midnight's twelfth deep sigh 

Floats slowly upward to the blue-arched sky; 

Cold lies the year, his mighty pinion furled — 

Time gives another monarch to the world! 

Proud is his air, and kingly is his crest, 

And golden hours seem (quivering on his breast; 

But what of joy or grief tlie future brings 

Lies closely folded yet beneath their wings. 

O may the wreath which binds our nation's brow 

Of bright star-souls still burn as proud as now! 

May the '"Great Reaper" stay his mighty hand 

Above the foreheads of our minstrel band. 

Till, faint with age, the gray-haired year shall fall. 

And Time grow sable with another pall ! 



"WHAT IS A KISS?" 



There is a star-eyed spirit, with a form of fairy grace, 

That oft from Love-land's portals bends a soft, be- 
witching face. 

As if seeking some lost treasure. "O sweet Love, 
what do you miss?" 

I asked one gone-by even-tide. "0 sav, what is a 
kiss?"' 



192 A VOICE FROM THE SOUTH. 

Love made answer by a question as amid the world 

of men ; 
And by another query, lo, I gave reply again. 
"A kiss? You wayward darling, don't you know 

the burning gem 
Man Prometheus-like has stolen from your own rich 

diadem? 
Has the fairy jewel paled in the cold atmosphere of 

earth. 
And lost the glowing brightness which clung round 

its Eden birth? 
Ah! with your cooing murmur, gentle spirit from 

above. 
In this dark world 3'ou well may ask, 'Where is the 

kiss of Love? ' 
Like the thoughts which wander faintly in the temple 

of the mind, 
Like the dreams which when awaking are but dim 

and half defined, 
Like the breath of coming summer, like the perfume 

of sweet flowers. 
Like a tone from the far past, like the memory of 

blest hours — 
You thought a pearl from Aideun lay upon the 

world's dark strand. 
That a ray of light had wandered from the beautiful 

Love-land. 
Yes, it is a gleam of glory from the wreath cast 

idly down — 
Earth has stolen, sweetest spirit, the dear jewel from 

your crown; 



A VOICE FROM THE SOUTH'. 193 

Soft and dewy as the waving of a seraph's golden 
wing, 

It is the soul's own autograph, and Love's bright 
signet-ring. 

O take it to its rightful home upon your fairy brow ! 

The world has a base counterfeit to stamp its wri ting- 
now. 

Gentle Love, upon the sibyl who has found your 
stolen gem, 

Will you not bestow a glance ere it stars your diadem? 

Fold your wings, bright child of Heaven ! Like the 
Peri sad and lone. 

Pining at the gates of paradise with wild and wail- 
ing moan, 

Like the Peri worn and wear}-, pining at the gates 
of bliss, 

My soul has fluttered u}»ward, and stands pleading 

for a kiss!" 

< < » • > 

MABELLE. 



Wayward and petted darling! plaything of idle 
liours! 

])rop from 3'our hands for a moment your Iteautiful 
sister flowers. 

O you 're a lovely blossom yourself, ni}' peerless 
Mabelle! 

'T was for such witching glances that our first ances- 
tor fell; 

'Twas for such lips of coral, 'twas for such violet 
eyes. 

And for such amber ringlets, Adam lost paradise! 



194 A VOICE FROM THE SOUTH. 

Come to me then, my darling, and like the breath 

of flowers 
Yonr love shall sweeten the moments snatched from 

more worldly hours. 

If I am naught but a plaything thrown like a 

blossom by, 
When life's deepest cares and sorrows like lead on 

your bosom lie. 
Woo me no more with your praises — woman has 

holier aims. 
Earth's anguish as well as its pleasures her tenderest 

sympathy claims; 
Her foot knows as well the rough pathway where 

pain and where poverty tread 
As the halls where soft music is swelling, and gas- 
lights are flashing o'erhead. 
If I'm naught but an idle plaything to cast in a 

moment by, 
You never shall gather the blossom you hold so 

lightly. Good-by! 

Come to me then, my darling, pride of my inmost 
soul! 

And at thy touch from my spirit love's purest waters 
shall roll. 

Plaything and toy no longer, nor whim of a fleet- 
ing hour, 

But one of God's sw^eetest evangels to me when the 
shadows lower; 

Sharer of joys and sorrows, dearer than all beside. 

Crowned by my heart forever, my beautiful one, 
mv brido ! 



A VOICE FROM THE SOUTH. 195 

THE POET'S CHOICE. 



Aurora's milk-white horses climb the east; 

Just o'er yon mountain's brow the day-god's steeds 

Flash their gold manes and shake their arching necks, 

While streams in radiant mists their panting breath. 

Thou, poet-dreamer, shonldst not stand alone 

Amid this glor\'. Woo some gentle one 

To weave Love's myrtle in thy crown of life. 

Fame's petted darling! choose thee ont a mate. 

Look on this miniature: is it not 

A face as beautifnl as ever bent 

In earthly worship at an eartlily shrine? 

"Beautiful? Yes. radiant as a dream 

Of fairj'-land and fairiesi beautiful 

As aught of earth can be ! Her Eastern eyes 

Flash out beneath the broad, down-sweeping lids 

And raven lashes like the stcn'm-god's swift 

And liery scimiter amid the clouds 

"Which veil his pathway. Nes^er sculptor's art 

Carved from the marble such a regal brow, 

Or arched the fullness of so proud a lip; 

And tresses shadowy as the raven wing 

Of night eternal sweep in heavy folds 

O'er her white shoulders and her rounded arms; 

But love has bloomed and withered in her heai-t — 

Its first sweet blossoms never could be mine." 

Ah! Love but kissed away the sparkling foam 
From Youth's red wine-cup; still within the vase 
Lingers its richest treasure, and lier soul, 



19G A VOICE FROM THE SOUTH. 

Strong and enduring, breasts the billowy waves 

Of her lone destin}'. she is one 

Grown rich wnth suffering, and if he were blessed 

Who won the girl's wild worship, doubly blessed 

Wert thou to win the woman's boundless love! 

But Beauty's courts have not been beggared yet 

Of their proud affluence. Poet, look again, 

Sa}^ is she beautiful wliose soft, white brow, 

Set in its golden ringlets, looks so pure 

And dove-like on thee from that jeweled shrine? 

"Beautiful? Yes. But 0! the northern hills, 
Now gleaming in the morning's golden light. 
Are also beautiful, and they may be 
Fit emblem for a being with a heart 
As icy as the frozen isles which float 
In the far polar seas. Like Undine, she 
Must win a soul ere she can form the true, 
Bright incarnation of a poet's dream." 

Look on this picture. Is not here a mate 
As beautiful as even thou could'st claim? 

"Beautiful? Yes. I have no words to paint 
That beauty's wild sublimity. 'Alone,' 
Nearest of written words, may zone with light 
Her history's sibyl leaves. Earth has no mate 
For such a soul as hers. Its Titan throbs 
Echo the word 'alone,' that bitterest curse 
A woman's heart may know. The orange-bloom 
Will never star the midnight of those braids 
Which diadem her pale and noble brow. 
With the wild pining, with the feverish thirst 



A VOICE FROM Tim SOUTH. 197 

To drink of Love's sweet waters, all uiiqiienehed, 
Her spirit's gaze will boldly dare the strange, 
Dark mysteries of eternity 'alone.' 
Her soul queens mine: it cowers beneath her feet! 
Unfold thy treasures to my gaze again. 

"Ha! I have seen that face. How like a dream 

Floats the dim memory past me! It was when 

O'er a bright Southern city drooped the wing 

Of the foul pestilence, and thick exhaled 

A foul miasma from the unfilled graves. 

Beauty sunk down with fevered moans to die, 

And manhood struggled in its giant strength 

With the destroying angel. Scarce a wail 

Within that stately city's bounds uprose 

To tell its desolation. Stunned and faint 

AVith Grief's dread lightning-shock, pale, silent forms 

Stole throuo-h the lonel v streets. One sweet, sad face 

Was flitting, angel-like, amid the dead. 

The dying, and the graves. It was the same 

As this fair picture. Eighteen summers slept 

In sunshine on her brow, and, luminous 

As the bright stars, her pure and earnest soul 

Looked from her eyes. She was not beautiful 

As mortals phrase it, but I know that God 

And his winged angels stamped that youthful face 

With loveliness. I shrine it in my soul, 

For time and for eternity my own ! " 



S=±r^ 



"^^^-e 



J^—~-<^_ 



"ts (^ 



198 A VOICE FROM THE SOUTH. 

THE CONDEMNATION OF CHRIST IN PILATE'S 
JUDGMENT-HALL. 



Thick thronged the guard, and anxious voices broke 
On the still air with strange and muffled sound, 
Like a sad bell-toll breathing to the world 
The last faint struggles of a passing soul. 

There was a sudden stir, 
And the deep tones were silenced, as before 
The judgment-seat of Pilate Christ was led. 
He who had wept above Jerusalem, 
And longed to shelter her from all the woes 
His death might fling upon her fated head. 
Amid the savage soldiers gathered round 
Stood calm and moveless. They for whom 
He prayed forgiveness joined the angry cry 
Of accusation which the priesthood led. 
"I find no fault in him," said Pilate. "Whom ye 

will 
Shall be released to 3'ou; then say, ye Jews, 
Shall it be Ae.?" They brought Barabbas forth, 
And placed him by the Lard — a wild, dark man 
Of lowering visage, with the matted hair, 
Clogged by long durance in a prison -cell, 
ILinging around his temples. Pilate spoke 
Again: " Ye people, whom shall I release — 
That man, a robber tainted with all crimes 
Which human breath might number, rank and foul; 
Or this pure prophet, who hath spent his life 
In holy teachings, now unjustly brought 
To this tribunaf?" 



A VOICE FROM THE SOUTH. 199 

But the shout swelled up 
Of "Crucify hinil Csesar is our king!" 
And Pilate turned away. "I wash my hands; 
His blood be on your heads. Again I say 
I find in him no fault." The cruel Jews 
Thronged close around him,and with mockingtaunts 
Smote him upon the cheek, and echoed, "Hail! 
Hail! King of all the Jews!" 

The crown of thorns 
Was pressed upon his temples, and with robes 
Of royal purple clad, he bore the scorn 
Of all the gazing crowd, and meekly trod 
The wine-press of his Father's wrath alone. 



CHILD-DREAMS, 



Dear mother, if the garnered store 

And wealth of worlds w^ere mine, 
It never might be valued more 

Than one caress of thine. 
My wealth is in each loving word 

Breathed on me from thy heart. 
My world is where thy voice is heard, 

My home is where thou art. 
Set where the thick-starred sky of night 

Arches a Southern clime, 
Kise halls wdiose domes are bathed in light, 

And many a temple-shrine. 
I long have viewed that land in dreams, 
And wandered by Italian streams, 



200 A VOICE FROM THE SOUTH. 

But still far brighter thoughts will come — 
Dear mother, they 're of thee and liome. 

Yet ere they fade — those visions wild — ■' 
The radiant fancies of a child 
May while a moment; otherwise 
The chronicle of weary sighs — 
Those purple visions — twilight brings 
- A thousand thoughts, whose golden wings 
Fan from my stifling heart the gray 
Age-moss it gathers in the day. 
It seems so strange to think that I 
Will ever gaze on this blue sky. 
Or twine the blossoms round my brow 
With less of careless youth than now! 

Last eve I balanced in my hand 

White pebbles gathered from the strand, 

And wondered if the child-like trust, 

The faith of these bright years. 
Would e'er be sullied by the rust 

Of earthly hopes and fears. 

Even ?iow, when counting back, I iind 
Childhood's /?V.S'/' stars so far behind, 
A century seems walled between 
Me and its oasis of green. 
Sibyl — sweet Mar}^ mother, l)less 

That young and radiant brow ! — • 
With all her angel loveliness, 

Is worldly-hearted now. 
They say that she has learned deceit 

And many soulless wiles. 
That poison deadly as 't is sweet 

Lurks in her witchinof smiles. 



. A VOICE FEOM THE SOUTH. 2-01 

The eve she left us I unbound 

The jewels from her hair, 
And twined a band of roses round 

The sunlight rippling there. 
She was so beautiful, there catne 
A thousand blessings on her name 
From hearts long cold and lips long still. 
Save when, perchance, they breathed of ill. 
My chosen playmate, it were well 
That thou hadst never learned the spell, 
Intoxicating though it be. 
With Avhich the world hath fettered thee — 
It gives so little to repay 
The guilelessneSs it takes away! 

How we have watched the summer breeze 

Glide through the dark magnolia-trees, 

Which, as it softly wandered o'er 

Each snow-white, perfumed chalice, bore 

To blossoms of a colder zone 

Far richer kisses than their own! 

She was the elder — o'er her head 

Xear twice my years had lightly sped; 

But yet with truthful heart she came. 

And breathed her thoughts to me the same. 

O can that pure, high soul have bent 

To earth to seek its nourishment? 

And ah ! if so, will I too learn 

From Youth's dear loves to coldly turn, 

And bind myself with Passion's chain, 

And struggle to be free again. 

Till bitterness and scorn alone 

Throb from mv heart with each wild tone? 



202 A VOICE moM THE SOUTH. 

Ah ! my soul-angel's pinion furled, 
I too may mingle with the world, 
And I may bow at many a shrine 
Less pure, less sacred far than thine; 
But one sweet thought shall ever rest 
All undisturbed within my breast: 
No matter what dark dream may come. 
Dear mother, 'tis of thee and home! 



THE BABY. 



Making a dress for the baby-girl. 

Ruffles and puffs galore, 
But baby is sobbing her heart away, 

Neglected upon the floor. 

Buying a hat, a marvel of lace, 

Garnished with blossoms rare. 
The daintiest, filmiest thing, to place 

On the baby's golden hair. 

But where is the baby? Well, who knows? 

She has but a hireling's care; 
The princely mansion has plenty of gold. 

But little of love to spare. 

A "society woman," proud and cold, 
Worthy the place she has won, they say 

The mother is; and the father? Well — 
Baby will be an heiress some day. 



^1 VOICF. FROM THE SOUTH. 203 

Making a dress for the baby-girl, 

The last that the little limbs will wear; 

Buying a costly casket to shrine 

The sunny face and the golden hair. 

And in the looms of vaporous gray 

Veiling the azure overhead, 
Angels are weaving a cover white 

Over the baby's couch to spread. 

For the restless feet and the eager voice 
Are quiet enough, alas! to-day; 

Not all the wealth of the millionaire 
Could drive the shadow of death away. 

Sleep, sleep sweetly, O baby-girl! 

Bud, O blossom, to beauty rare! 
Into Ilis lily-gardens above 

Lead her, angels, under your care! 



LAUS DEO! 



Ora pro nobis! From plague-smitten cities 

Rose to the heavens a pitiful wail. 
" Cometh it hitherward? " Lips that were question- 
ing. 

Waiting the answer, grew rigid and pale. 

Small was the need of w\aiting or answer — 
Fierce as the breath of the simoom it came; 

Over us brooded the wing of a vulture 

Black as the midnight, wdth eyes of red flame. 



204 A VOICE FROM THE SOUTH. 

Ora pro nobis! so gasped our fair Southland, 
Helpless and bound in the Fever-liend's toils; 

Vain were her struggles — each da^vning and sunset 
Round her he tierhtened his venomous coils.- 



O the dread cries of the death-stricken mothers 
Cleaving the silence, and then growing still! 

Horrible stillness! — an anguish all living 
Yet on the features that nothing could kill. 

Death-frozen babies on death-frozen bosoms, 
Waxen in beauty, the bud and the l>loom 

Lay as if sculptured. The eyes closed at midnight 
Gray dawn saw not — they were veiled 'neath the 
tomb ! 

Sobs, tears, and tombstones! O these were our 
records. 

Graven last summer! and over our dead 
Dropped we no roses. Our prayers and our anguish, 

These were the palls o'er our darlings we spread 

Past rushed the cars as if wiiiged by a terror 

Words could not symbol Avith whistle and shout; 

Pale faces peering drew back with a shudder — 
What could we do unless God found us out? 

These were the days when all creeds were but 
phrases, 

Meaningless phrases, by all laid aside; 
Catholic? Protestant? what did it matter? 

All in Gethsemane buried their pride. 



A VOICE FROM THE SOUTH. 205 

Then in the dust all our foreheads were bended — 

Ora pro nobis! together our wail 
Cleft through the heavens, and God sent his angel. 

Norland, m you we his messenger hail! 

Deeds more than words were the answer you sent us: 
N"urses, and comforts, and pity, and cheer. 

Thus to our calling, O brothers, you answered. 
Thus fought with Death beside all we held dear. 

How shall we hail her, this glorious Borland — 
With costly libations, with chiming of bells? 

IIow shall we thank her — with upsoaring anthems. 
With Melody's purest and loftiest swells? 

ISTay. But wherever her foot-prints of mercy 
Southward have angel-like pressed on the sod, 

Greet her as one by Omnipotence chosen, 
Hail her the messenger sent by our God. 

Speak for us, blossoms, in volumes of fragrance; 

Speak for us, breezes, in billows of song- 
Speak for us, rivers, on whose sunny borders 

Sorrow has vulture-like brooded so long. 

Deep in the heart of the South springs a lily, 

White-lipped and fragrant, and sparkling with 
dew. 

Born in one night. As in Orient legend, 
ISTorland, this lily is singing to you. 

Lo! the true hand-clasp across the dark chasm — 
Pity and Love bridge the blood-spotted, years! 

Music through infinite spaces uprises, 

Sweeter by far tlian the song of the s[)heres! 



200 A VOICE FROM THE SOUTH. 

Hark to the anthem of gratitude swelling! 

Ties now are forged which no power can undo: 
Southland and ISTorland, in one ye are blended — 

Faith, Love, and Honor have blossomed anew! 



CHATTANOOGA. 



Through the drear midwinter days, 
Couchant mid the fog and haze, 
Grim and gloomy Lookout lies 
Shaggy in liis lion-guise. 
On the brow of Cameron Hill 
Amethystine shadows still 
Linger, ilecked with gold, to tell 
Where the sun's last kisses fell. 
Shadowed by the grand old hills 
Whose proud battle-record thrills 
Southland hearts, 'neath Southland skies 
Gem-like (yhattanooga lies — 
In the morning's radiant hold, 
Scintillant with rose and gold, 
And in even's brilliant sheen, 
Stately as some Orient queen! 

Now around her sounds no more 
Battle shout or cannon's roar; 
Fields where blood was poured in vain 
Now are bannered o'er with grain; 
Writhing ranks of blue and gray 
Now no more contest thedav; 



A VOICE FROM THE SOUTH. 207 

Hearts forgetting thirst for blood 
Meet in cordial brotherhood; 
Soldiers bronzed and rich in scars 
Rear aloft the flag of stars! 

Dear "Lost Cause," \Yithin thy grave 
Lie the bravest of our brave; 
Bear "furled banner," buried deep 
Like the hearts and hands which sleep 
Where the cities of the dead 
Whitely to the eastward spread, 
And by Love and Memory crowned 
Make historic every mound, 
Be thou sacred! for we gave 
Of our best thy folds to lave. 
Banner of our holy dead! 
Once o'er Southron armies spread, 
Hallowed by remembrance, still 
Thou shalt live, nor cease to thrill 
Every heart that mid the fray 
Throbbed beneath the glorious ^'■Gmy." 



"COIR A GLAIVE." 



Only a woman left alone — 

A weary heart and a toil-worn hand. 
And a hungry world to gnaw the bone 

By scandal cast on its drifting sand. 

Snarling, and showing hyena-like teeth, 
Over a morsel rich and rare; 

Digging for sorrow hidden beneath 
That icy face and imperial air. 



208 A VOICE FROM THE SOUTH. 

Four little children, babies all, 

Cling to her neck and climb on her knees- 
Blossoms a careless hand let fall, 

Valued less than a selfish ease. 

Four little children— knightly "Mar;" 
'•Maude," with the pure Madonna-face; 
"Lyra," fair as her bright name-star; 

And sweetest of all, the baby "Grace." 

Four little children — and where the sire? 

Feted and flattered in foreign lands, 
Leaving the sacred household fire 

To be fed and tended by mother-hands. 

Only a woman left alone; 

But with earnest faith and a deathless })ride 
She faced the world, and then, bolder grown, 

She challenged success, and success replied. 

She has carved a path by the power of song 
And the might of the pen; she stands to-day 

With her foot on the hydra-head of Wrong, 
And Fame has brought her its crown of baj'. 

Though "only a wa^man left alone,'' 

She has won her way where the Titans stand; 

And, "coir a glaive," she will hold her own 
With the laureled giants of Poet-land. 



A VOICE FROM THE SOUTH. 209 

QUESTIONING. 



"Whom the Lord loveth he chasteneth" — so saitli, 

in Holy Writ, 
lie to unloose whose sandals these worthless hands 

are untit; 
But will he be "angry forever?" Like sleuth- 
hounds relentless and grim, 
Sorrows chase swift on my pathway, and faith, like 

my eyes, grows dim. 
Will his hand be never uplifted, his rod never cease 

to smite. 
Till the life-shore fades away, and eternity looms in 

sight? 
Do the thorns all grow on the nearer, the flowers on 

the farther shore? 
Will Sorrow, like Foe's weird raven., croak alwa3's its 

" Nevermore ? " 
To my questioning cometh no answer — he doeth as 

seems to him meet; 
His serf, with an eartli-bent forehead, I crouch in 

the dust at his feet. 

But the sore heart within will quiver, as the raw 

flesh does without 
When the criminal shrinks and writhes 'ueath the 

blows of the horrible knout; 
And I am but mortal. I had my loves and my 

dreams — 
Love? how far from me now the beautiful mirage 

seems ! 

]4 



210 A VOICE FROM THE SOUTH. 

Love, and a home and friends — T cared for little beside, 
Though I knew ray "Yule -log" would brightly 

burn at each coming Christmas-tide; 
But whatever my wages, I earned them — I say it 

with bated breath. 
And the solemn awe we feel when we stand by the 

bed of death. 
If the draught that He sends me is bitter, he once 

tilled my cup with the sweet. 
Shall I murmur, or reason with AiV/iF Nay, I lay all 

my cares at his feet. 






'■'^^^^^^^f^-^^ ,...?^s=-^-' 



c^ 






Southern War-songs, 






I HAD not at first thought of including in a printed voUinie these 
Bongs, written in the days when the "bonnie blue flag" floated over 
our Southern armies. The banner which inspired them is furled 

forever — 

It sleeps the sleep of Jackson now, 

As spotless and as calm ; 

And upon green hill-side and beside blue streamlet, like it, slumber 
"our dead," whose hands — bravest of the brave — if they could not 
pluck victory, at least gathered laurel to crown their graves. 

The old animosity and bitterness are dying out with the dying 
years — should not these songs, written amid the heat of " lost and won 
battle-fields," die too? Northern and Southern hands alike drop 
garlands where slumber " tlie blue and the gray ; " side by side sol- 
diers who once met in deadly conflict rear aloft "the flag of stars." 

But a few friends assure me that, to them, without these "songs" 
this volume would be incomplete. To these true Southern men and 
women I dedicate them. Tliey are theirs. 
(212) 




THE STAR OF THE SOUTH. 



There 's a ne\v*nsen star on our liorizon's rim, 
Whose glorious radiance will never grow dim; 
vSoon high in the zenith will broaden its flame, 
And all our bright Southland reecho its name. 
On many a banner its emblem now glows 
"Where the sugar-cane rijtens or orange-flower blows; 
We hail its proud rising, though seen from afar — 
'T is the star of the South, our own beautiful star! 

'Neath its rays our fair Southland its wealth shall 

unfold. 
And the snows of her cotton-fields ripen to gold; 
The buds of her greatness shall burst into bloom. 
And weight her soft breezes with richest perfume, 
While centuries march with a conquering tread, 
Bearing fresh wreaths of glory to halo her head. 
Then liail we its rising: it glows not afar; 
Still nearer 'tis flaming — our own Southern star! 

It shines where t^ie glorious "Palmetto flag" flies 
In triumph beneath Carolinian skies. 
Where Savannah sweeps past with a murmuring soft. 
Where the "Everglades" toss their dark liranches 
aloft, 

(213) 



214 A VOICE FROM THE SOUTH. 

Where the " Father of Waters'" rolls gulfward away, 
And its radiance is mirrored in Mauvila's* bay. 
Then hail we its rising: it glows not afar; 
In the zenith 'tis flaniino; — our own Southern star! 



*Mauvila is an old Indian name of Mobile. 



THE JACKSON VOLUNTEERS. 



The cars, borne on the thunder-breath 

Of steam, went rushing by, 
And on the air a mighty cheer 

From gallant hearts rose high. 
They bore the hopes of many a hearth 

Upon their iron path — • 
Brave hearts to man our Southern forts, 

And meet the battle's wrath. 
And O! where'er their fortune leads. 

To peace or Northern spears, 
God bless and bring them home again— 

Our Jackson Volunteers! 

When through our county swept the voice 

Which bade her sons to rise 
And march where lower'd the storm-cloud's force 

Beneath more southward skies. 
Three hundred gallant men went forth 

To meet their country's call, 
To bear aloft the Southern ilng. 

Or 'neath its folds to fall: 



A VOICE FROM THE SOUTH. 215 

To bare, if need be, every breast 

Before the Northern spears; 
And Jackson county wrote her ncune 

In Jackson Volunteers! 

Once she has spoken — on Fame's roll 

Her autograph shall shine; 
'T was traced in living characters 

Upon her country's shrine. 
And if the "red right-hand" of war 

Shall wave its brand on high. 
Then let them call old Jackson's name — 

She will again reply; 
More hearts will rise to meet the brunt 

Of hostile Northern spears,. 
And Jackson yet again loill write 

Her name in Volanteers ! 



THE SOUTH. 



Hail to the South! to the glorious land 

Where chivaliy never dies, 
Where honor and beauty burst into bloom 

Like flowers under tropic skies; 
Where Faith, like the mighty swaying pines, 

Sings anthems forevermore, 
And hearts, like flint to the stroke of steel, 

Still flash as in days of yore! 

Cho. — Ho for the South, for the gallant South! 
She calls to her sons, "Arise!" 
Answer her foes at the cannon's mouth; 
He lives for aye who nobly dies 



216 A VOICE FROM THE SOUTH. 

Where her victorious banner flies — 
Ho for the South! arise I arise! 

Hail to the Soutli ! to lier soldiers brave, 

To her women true and fair; 
To the soul of outraged pride Avhich leaps 

Like a lion from its lair, 
And breasts the tempest of Northern steel, 

And her foes at the cannon's mouth, 
While peals like thunder her battle-cry — 

Ho! ho for the gallant South! 

Hail to the South! to her gallant tlag. 

To the glorious wreath of stars 
Which flash like gems on its azure field, 

To its white and crimson bars; 
Cheer it, Southrons, for song will tell 

Of its fame in future da3's — 
The fairest flag and the bravest men 

That were ever crowned with bays! 



THE SOUTHERN PLEIADES. 



When first our Southern flag arose 

Beside the heaving sea. 
It bore upon its silken folds 

A green palmetto-tree. 

All honor to that banner brave! 

It roused the blood of yore, 
And nerved the arms of Southern men 

For valiant deeds once more. 



A VOICE FROM THE SOUTH. 217 

When storm-clouds darkened o'er our sky, 

That star, the first of seven, 
Shone out amid the mist and ffloom, 

To liglit our country's heaven. 

The glorious seven I long may their flag 

Wave proudly on the breeze! 
Long may they burn on Fame's broad sky — 

The Southern Pleiades! 

Weep, wail, O hearts of Northern pride, 

Amid your courts to-day! 
For from the Union's starry crown 

Seven States have passed away, 

Ne'er to return ! New suns may rise, 

And summer-blossoms blow, 
And as of old the western sky 

With rainbow glory glow; 

But they, while patriot hands still throb 

On these wide, fertile plains. 
Will ne'er, returniug, tamely hold 

Hands forth to meet their chains. 

jSTo! they can die beside their hearths, 

Or at the cannon's mouth, 
But not betray to Northern rule 

The fair and queen-like South. 

Then honor to the gallant flag 
Now borne upon the breeze! 
And to the seven! long may they shiue — 
. The Southern Pleiades! 



218 A VOICE moM THE SOUTH. 

ALABAMA. 



Over vale and over moiintani, 
Pealing forth in triumph strong, 

Comes a lofty swell of music- 
Alabama's gathering-song. 

In the new-born arch of glory, 
Lo! she burns, the central star; 

Kever shame shall blight its grandeur, 
Kever cloud its radiance mar! 
Alabama! Alabama! 

Listen, Southrons, to the strain; 
Alabama! Alabama! 

Shout tiie rallying-crj' again! 

As the gulf-waves, rushing shoreward, 

Break in music-echoes grand, 
Alabama sends this greeting 

Proudly to her sister band^ 
This her ultimairtm, burning 

In each heart of Southern flame: 
"Peace, if gained not by dishonor; 
But far better death than shame." 
Alabama! Alabama! 
Listen, Southrons, to the strain ; 

Alabama! Alabama! 
Shout the rallying-cry again! 

Let the "Northern lion," couchant 
On his bleak and frozen plain. 

Lift his shaggy front in wonder. 
And, defiant, shake his mane! 



A VOICE FROM TKE SOUTH. 219 

Sunward soars the mighty eagle, 

And where bloBsoni brighter Lowers 
Thau amid the green savannas 
Of this sunny land of ourS. 
Alabama! Alabama! 
Listen, Southrons, to the strain; 

Alabama! Alabama! 
Shout the rallvincr-'cry asfain I 

And her sons will rise in legions. 

Bleed and die at her behest, 
Ere a hostile Northern footstep 

Trample conqueror on her breast. 
This the faith she plights her sisters 

In this glorious Southern band: 
Side by side she will l)e with them, 

Heart with heart, and hand with hand. 
Alabama ! Alaba ma ! 
Listen, Southrons, to the strain; 

Alabama! Alabama! 
Shout the rallying-cry again! 



WHERE TENNESSEE IS. 



Hail to Tennessee! to the "State of Volunteers; " 
Wave your hats on high, boys, fill the air with cheers. 
Nobly has she Ijattled, sits she now amid her peers — 
Bid her kindly welcome: hearts of such as she 
Ever throb to Honor's call — brave old Tennessee! 



220 A VOICE FROM THE SOUTH. 

Slow was her awakening, proud at length it came; 
Like a dread volcano, bursting forth in ilame. 
Rose the smothered torrent, crowning her with farne; 
Like a mighty earthquake, shaking land and sea, 
Comes her footstep Southward — -dear old Tennessee! 

When the Northern minions insolently bade 
Arms of Tennesseans their unholy cause to aid. 
Worthy of her glory was the answer then she made: 
"Thousands to defend the South, on land or on the 

sea, 
None to meet a tyrant's call " — brave old Tennessee! 

"Where is Tennessee?" once we asked with many 

a tear; 
Murmuring forth the question as if by a loved one's 

bier; 
Now we proudly answer, "Tennessee is here! " 
In the Southern crown, lo, her flaming star we see, 
With our own her banner — brave old Tennessee! 

With our gallant Southland, like brothers side by 
side. 

Sec her noble spirits forth to death or victory ride — 

Legions whose proud front ne'er blenched amid the 
battle-tide! 

Onward, then! no hostile foot upon our soil should 
be— 

Strike as few but thou canst strike, brave old Ten- 
nessee! 



A VOICE FROM THE SOUTH. 221 

KENTUCKY. 



Of erst the "dark and bloody ground" 

Was famed in song and story; 
Her name has won a lofty niche 

In many a shrine of glory. 
Of erst when Honor called, "To arms!" 

Amid the roar of battle, 
Kentucky boys were first to meet 

The cannon's deadly rattle. 

Is there no record of the past, 

In language firm yet wooing. 
To whisper to her gallant hearts, 

"Arise! 'be up and doing?'" 
When Southern men defend their homes 

B}' hostile fleets invaded, 
Shall Old Kentucky's honored brow 

By weak delay be shaded ? 

"Nol as arose in might and power 

The glorious "Old Dominion," 
And flashed glad tidings o'er the wires 

Upon the lightning's pinion. 
So let Kentucky crown her name 

Afresh with fame and glory, 
And with her sister South embalm 

Her name fore'er in story. 

Strong hearts and brave, come forth in strength 
Where Northern legions, raging, 

Against our altars and our fires 
Are deadlv warfare washing. 



222 A VOICE FROM THE SOUTH. 

Ten stars already gem the flag 
Above our armies waving — 

Will Old Kentucky be the last 
In there her name engraving? 



ALABAMA TO KENTUCKY. 



We come, O Kentucky! Virginia's fair child 

Shall ne'er ask for succor in vain, 
And proud Alabama, if footstep of hers 

May break but one link in thy chain, 
With the sun-smile of Victory flashing around, 
Our feet on thy hill-tops and vales shall be found. 

We come like a whirlwind ! beside each bright stream, 
Each spot where the Federal bayonets shine — 

Where, worn by oppression and insolent sneers, 
Kentucky's fair daughters now pine — 

We will wave our proud standard : its circlet of stars 

Shall glow like a ci'own on the forehead of Mars! 

We have gathered the laurel, brave friends, side by 
side. 
And though blood-stained the glittering leaves, 
They will not shine less brightly when History's 
muse 
Her song o'er our battle-fields weaves. 
Then up and away for your homes, gallant men — 
In Kentucky we'll gather the bay-wreath again ! 



A VOICE FROM THE SOUTH. 223 

Huzza for Kentucky! for Victorj^'s Imiid, 

Like that of a giant, is rattling her chains, 
And the tread of our Southrons will shake the firm 
ground 
As they march in proud triumph across her green 
plains, 
While ye, her true sons, wave the banner of stars 
Which glows like a crown on the forehead of Mar*^! 



TO COL. HARRIS, OF THE EIGHTH GEORGIA, 
WITH FLOWERS. 



Sing a song of glorious promise, 
Dainty bud and opened bloom, 

As you seek the gallant soldier 
With your lips of sweet perfume. 

Whisper in his ear of triumphs, 
Tell him many laurels grow 

In our fair and sunny Southland 
Yet to twine the soldier's brow. 

When the "stars and bars" are floating 
Proudly over land and wave. 

Then fair hands will twine a circlet 
For the foreheads of the brave. 

And the gallant "Eighth of Georgia" 
Well may wear the laurel-crown 

Won by deeds of knightly chivalry, 
Of darinof and renown! 



224 A VOICE FROM THE SOUTH. 

OUR FLAG. • 



'T IS the flag of our Southland : " O long may it wave 
O'er tlie land of the free and the home of the Ijrave ! " 
Its stars, like the bright constellations which wheel 
Round the pole-star, as true as the magnet to steel, 
Will never know setting — let centuries wane. 
Their track on Time's heaven will still be the same. 
Rise, Southrons, to greet it; give cheers three times 

three 
For the flao; of our nation — the flas; of the free! 

Lo, in front of the battle wave proudly its bars, 
And flaming detiant shine out its bright stars! 
Our fair Southern banner! see, under its fold 
Crowd bosoms as dauntless as e'er beat of old; 
And each soldier in dying but asks it may wave 
O'er his death-groan in glory — the flag of the brave ! 
Swear, Southrons, to guard it on land and on sea, 
And bear it to triumph — the flag of the free ! 

Three cheers for our banner! Rise, Southrons, in 

might, 
And wave it where fiercest is raging the fight! 
The Southland has martyrs for freedom who fell — 
On, on to avenge them ! strike bravely and well ! 
Shout "God and our right! " wave our banner on 

high ! 
Let "Victory or death" be the South's battle-cry! 
We'll bear it to triumph, on land and on sea, 
Or die to defend it— the "flag of the free!" 



Temperance Poems. 






15 



"(3 d) S^ 



BmQ 



A PLEA. 



READ IN THE ALABAMA LEGISLATURE. 



Conscript Fathers — so of old, in the halej'on days 

of Rome, 
When she crowned with bays her warriors victorious 

coming home; 
Conscript Fathers — so they called the band of grave 

and reverend men 
Who formed her chosen senate, and who led her 

councils then. 
I scarce know how to frame the words which best 

may breathe my prayer, 
And win for it, amid your halls, a hearing true and 

fair. 
A hearing? Nay! I dare hope more — I hope some 

knightly brand 
May unsheath in proud defiance to the tyrant of 

our land — 
To the curse which on so many homes has cast a 

blasting spell; 
Which crowds insane asylums, and fills the felon's 

celh 

(227) 



228 A VOICE FROM THE SOUTH. 

Lo! the monster, wreathed in purple, to imperial 

power has grown. 
Is there not some Brutus here to smite this Ccesar 

on his throne? 
0! I plead for sober husbands, for the worn-out, 

weary wives. 
For sober fathers who will guide their children's 

daily lives. 

Senators of Alabama! Legislators in her halls! 
To you, with forehead bent in dust, an earnest 

woman calls. 
By your mothers, if they live — by their memories, 

if dead; 
By the daughters whom you would not wish to 

see a drunkard wed. 
Crush the gilded dens which deal out liquid poison 

day by day, 
And from our State's fair forehead sweep the " curse 

of blood" away! 



THE ELF-KING'S HOUSE. 



Let us buikl a house for our Elfin king^ 
It is thus that the Elfland minstrels sing. 
True, he is weak-eyed, scrawny, and thin; 
What matters thatf we have "counted him in;' 
And, as other prosperous countries do, 
We'll have a board of officers, too. 

"IIoo!" cried a stout little gnome, whose nose 
Looked like a full-grown blossoming rose 



A VOICE FROM THE SOUTH. 229 

(For Eliland has " Local Option " laws, 
With many a guilt-^evading clause); 
"Hoo! what 's the use of one's being a king, 
If he can't have the choicest of every thing?" 

So the ivives of Elfland were poorly fed, 

And the Elfland children cried for bread 

(A state of things which I understand 

Has a parallel in our Christian land), 

But the Elfland fathers gathered the dimes, 

And the house was built in spite of " the times." 

" Now for the board I" cried a pursy gnome; 

And he kicked a poor elf who cried, "Father, come 

home!'' 
And he twisted his dyed mustaches, and shook 
His fist with a terribly patriot look. 
"Hold!" cried the Elf-king, looking wise. 
With a cunning gleam in his bleared old eyes; 
" I think I '11 be one of the board myself. 
And lay all wishes save mine on the shelf — 
Make laws for others, but never a thing 
For mc but this, " If it please the king." 

And the women and children went raafored and cold. 
When the Elf-king had ever}' thing firm, in his hold; 
But whether or not liis palace will stand, 
I cannot tell — " <V was built on sand." 



230 A VOICE FROM THE SOUTH. 

THE SECOND CAIN. 



From the ground a voice is calling — 

All o'er earth resounds the cry, 
Upward through the ether wailing 

To the throne of the Most High. 
Love, hent to dust, is weeping 

O'er her hecatombs of slain. 
Asking, "Where is now thy brother?" 

Where, where, thou branded Cain? 

Say, "Where is now thy brother?" 
"Nay, good Lord; how can I tell? 
Am I my brother's keeper? 

By his own weak will he fell. 
If the liquid wealth I sold him 

Was more dear than his good name, 
Than home, or wife, or children. 

Then in what was I to blame? 

"Coin by coin the gold he brought me 

To a stately mansion grew; 
If his own went down in ruins, 

I had naught with that to do. 
His wife — no princess curls her lip 

With scorn more proud and high; 
With cold, defiant gaze 

His half-clothed children pass me by 
As if I were some Pariah. 

Nay; let them cast the blame. 
If blame there be, on him alone , 

To whom belono:s the shame." 



A VOICE FROM THE SOUTH. 231 

Cain! nay, Cain was trne and royal 
By such sin-soiled souls as yours. 
"Judas" is the only name 

Which should be written on your doors; 
Judas, who for thirty pieces 

Turned his back on heaven's bliss. 
And, crying "Hail!" betrayed 
His Lord and Master with a kiss. 

The " voice of blood " is rising. 

Sweeping over all the land; 
It is thy slaughtered brother's — 

God requires it at thy Inind. 
Lo, the wailing wives and mothers! 

To God's bar they summon thee; 
When the ^^dics irm'' Hameth, 

Answer there their awful plea! 



JOHN SMITH'S SOLILOQUY. 



I SAT alone in the gloamin', 

Just after the set of suii; 
The tea by the fire was waitin'. 

An' all of my work was done. 
I could think of nothin' to cheer me. 

My hopes like the daylight had fied, 
An' the dark seemed dr()pj)iii' round me, 

On my heart as well as my head. 
I looked through the dim north window. 

An' there was John Smith alone — 
I choked down a sob in my bosom, 

In seein' how gray he had grown. 



232 'A VOICE FROM THE SOUTH. 

He stood on his hoc a leaniii', 

A lookin' so weary an' worn; 
His coat like himself was rusty, 

An' the band tVom his hat was torn. 
Sometimes I've thought in my dreamin' 

An angel had backward rolled 
The gates of the past, an' brought us 

The looks an' the feelin's of old; 
An' I hardly could keep from cryin' 

In thinkin' of days that were gone, 
Before I had cause to be mournin' 

At the changes in me an' John. 

As I looked again at the garden, 

The figure had vanished in air; 
The rust}^ old coat had faded. 

An' the John of my youth was there — 
With never a frown on his forciiead, 

An' lookin' so trim an' so neat, 
As of old when I watched for him eveniu's 

A walkin' so brisk up the street. 
What a pity such pictures are tleetin', 

That the new takes the i)lace of the old, 
That the treasure the gloamin' had brought me 

Was nothin' bat fairy fi old ! 
For when I slipped out in the twilight. 

All tremblin' with eager haste. 
There was John in his rough old settin', 

An' naught of the youth I had traced. 

For myself I have sometimes been sorry, 
But this evenin' I'll give you my oath, 
Lookin' at him, I l)uried all hardness. 

An' tried to he sorry for both; 



A VOICE FROM THE SOUTH. 233 

For I caught the low words that he muttered, 

As he thought that he stood there aloue — 
He Avas talkin' of Maud, au' of Jaeky, 

Of Grace, an' I heard liini groan. 
"No children are brighter an' quicker," 

He said, "an' but few so good. 
An' I wish this okl shanty were nicer, 

An' things would go more as they should; 
But every thing seems to go cross-ways, 

I'm constantly gettin' behind. 
An' my matters inlU get in a tangle 

That I hardly have skill to unwind. 

"But whose is the fault I wonder? 

Is it mostly Phoebe's, or mine? 
Or, perhaps, as she sometimes tells me, 

Does it lie in the ale an' the wine? 
I can see the difference plainly 

In the men that sell an' that buy — 
The sellers have jdenty, the buyers 

Are ragged an' 'rough as I. 
In the times of old, poor Phrebe 

Was gayer an' better dressed. 
An' then I was never without a hat. 

Or a meetin' coat an' vest; 
An' I still would have them, I reckon, 

If I never had planted a rose, 
An' nursed it so well into bearin' 

A bloom on the tip of my nose. 

"As I stood in the wheat-field last Friday, 
Just straightened from binding a sheaf,' 
My Jacky from school came a laughin' 
With, 'Father, I've turned a new leaf.' 



234 



A VOICE PROM "tHE SOUTH. 



Thinks I to myself^ My darlin', 

I know 'tis a burnin' shame 
That your gray-headed father don't follow 

Your track, an' be doin' that same. 
There's a screw loose somewhere, I swear it! 

There's somefhuu/ that's needhi' a withe — 
Either a back or a breakage, 

As sure as my name is John Smith." 






(^: (s 




J^^^ 



Memorial Poems 






(s g) 



UNDERNEATH. 



Under the snow, under the snow — 
Ah, well! it is where we nil must go. 
Under the dead leaves, under the rime, 
Under the snow in the winter-time; 
Under the violets in the spring 
Where shadows waver and wild-hirds sing, 
And the rivulet winds in a silver thread 
Over the living [ive call them dead). 

Under the roses born in June, 
Under the light of a harvest-moon; 
Under the billows of golden grain. 
Lulled by the plash of the autumn rain; 
Under the crimson, drifting leaves 
Dropped from the breast of October eves; 
Under the dreamy amethyst haze, 
Crowning the Indian-summer days; 
So we are dropping, one by one — 
Father in heaven, thy will be done! 

(237) 



238 A VOICE FROM THE SOUTH. 



SENTINELS. 



I PLANTED a lilj at your feet, 

And a jasmine at your bead: 
Living, you planted the jasmine for me. 

And I plant it now for you, dead. 
Alas! 

That I plant it for you dead! 

I turned away with a lingering step, 
"With a fevered heart and brain ; 

But both will be cold enough, perhaps. 
When I come to your side again — 

love, 
When I come to your side again! 

Bloom, O lily and jasmine, bloom ! 

Sentinels white and sweet; 
Would that my love like you could unfold 

In flowers at his head and feet. 
In rare 

Bright flowers at his head and feet! 

Weep with the dews, and smile with the sun. 

Odorous smiles and tears; 
Keep faithful watch for me till I come. 

Whether for months or years — 
Keep watch, 

Whether for months or years! 



A VOICE FliOM THE SOUTH. 239 

Jle will wake again! I know, I know 
In the "land o' leal" we shall meet. 

Christ of Gethsemane! Lo, I lay 
My hopes and my faith at thy feet, 

O Christ! 
My hopes and my faith at thy feet. 



DO THEY REMEMBER? 



O LAND of the angels, so far away, 
Where pain and sorrow surcease alway; 
Where the asphodel blooms, and the lilies lie 
Like banks of snow 'neath a cloudless sky; 
Where the air is vibrant with music-breath, 
And no echo comes from the vale of death — 
Paint on my soul, through "the gates ajar," 
One glimpse of the world where my loved ones are. 
-Do they still remember in climes above? 
Do you think of me ever, my own dear love? 
The home of the angels I know is fair. 
But O do you never think of me there? 
Do you never long, I wonder, to hold 
My hand in yours as in days of old? 
Howe'er it be, in your home above 
Keep room for me by your side, my love ! 



240 A VOICE FROM THE SOUTH. 

JOHN A. SHELTON. 



'Tis the voice of thy God: 
^'Ilove thee, I love thee; pass under the rod!" 

Within my grief-full soul to-night 

A mausoleum gleams, 
Reared to my dead who come to me 

JSTo more except in dreams. 
Deep in its holiest recess 

A harp forever wails, 
Beside its pure memorial wreath 

Earth's fairest blossom pales. 
My buried love, I place thy name 

Within that sacred shrine — 
No shield so safe from scathe or blame 

As this sad heart of mine. 

"city of the silent dead," 
So ghostly, calm, and white! 

Bid my lost darling's sleep be sweet, 

Sweeter than mine to-night. 
Spirits whose radiant pinions sweep 

The amethystine deeps above, 
Beyond the realms of pain and death 

Bear this one message to my love: 
"I miss thee, dearest — e'en a frown 

If lowering on tluj brow. 
Could I but meet thy living glance, 

Were w^elcome to me now. 

1 miss thee! Comes the twilight hour, 
But coming, nevermore 

Brings it to )7ie its olden dower. 
Thy footstep by my door. 



A VOICE FROM THE SOUTH. 241 

Until this heart shall cease to thrill, 

Until these lips like thine are dust, 
Beyond the portals of the grave 

I send thee kisses, love, and trust!" 
And I — dear God, be pitiful! — 

I sit amid the gloom 
Whose midnight shadows darkly slant 

From thy unsodded tomb. 
O Saviour! from the depths of woe 

My soul cries out to thee. 
Pity me, thou., by Calvary's stones! 

By dark Gethsemane! 
Thou, who hast wounded, heal! 1 grope, 

Blind, stunned, to meet my doom — 
O bid in this wild rebel-heart 

Faith's Easter lilies bloom' 



HON. P. RAGLAND. 



Peace to thy ashes! Firm, defiant, proud. 
To death alone thy haughty spirit bowed. 
Ah! may it rest in purer, brighter spheres. 
Friend of my girlhood, and of later years. 
A few short days gone by I clasped thy hand 
In earnest greeting; now the "silent land" 
Has claimed thee for its own. Alas! it seems 
But a dim phantasm, born of fevered dreams. 
Dead. Well, we all must die; and yet, and yet 
I weep to see thy sun at noonday set. 
I am not rich in friends, and ill can spare 
One so unswerving, and of faith so rare. 
16 



242 A VOICE FROM THE SOUTH. 

Grief speaks not well — or O how rich would be 
The in memoriam which I trace for thee! 
Rest thou in peace. No truer friend than I 
Beside thy corse breathed forth a heart-felt sigh, 
I place thee with my dead, whose holiest shrine 
Is their dear memory in this heart of mine. 
Let others count thy faults, but I alone 
Will number o'er the virtues I have known. 
Sleep thou in peace, while sweep the circling spheres, 
Friend of my girlhood, and of later years! 



LINES IN MEMORY OF S. B. SHELTON. 



In that fair land where comes nor rise 

Nor setting of the sun, 
Rest, gray-haired patriarch — earth's fierce pains 

And sorrows all are done. 

Alas! new blossoms still ma}^ blow, 
And moons may grow and wane. 

Rut thy kind smile, thy tender tone, 
Will never come again. 

Like some fair river floating on 

To far-off summer seas, 
Unruffled by the passing breath 

Of one tempestuous breeze. 

So at the sunset hour thy soul 

(Faith's altar-fires aglow) 
Swept to its home — a home where pain 

Can never come, nor woe. 



A VOICE FRO 31 THE SOUTH'. 243 

" He giveth his beloved sleep " — 

Ah, grieving hearts, be still! 
"He loveth while he chasteiieth." Bow 

Unto the Master's will ! 

Faith paints within each trembling soul 

Upon its mist of tears 
God's "bow of promise," and the hope 

Of deathless, bliss-crowned years. 

And now in that sweet "land o' leal" 

A star-crowned spirit stands, 
Blessing his loved, and wooing there 

With tender beckonina; hands. 



MEMORIA IN .STERNA. 



Waveless, tideless upper sea, 
Send some message down to me! 
Sea on whose blue breast remote 
Stars like golden shallops float; 
"Where Orion's dagger bright 
Smites athwart the shield of night, 
And, "free lances of the sky," 
Meteors sweep, and comets fly ; 
Where so many ships there be 
Moored or floating — mystic sea. 
Send some message down to me! 

All the air around me throbs 
With my sick heart's stormy sobs; 



244 A VOICE FROM THE SOUTH. 

Arms no chains of flesh infold 
Seem to clasp me in their hold; 
Fingers made of filmy air 
Softly thread my silvered hair; 
Unsubstantial shadows fall 
In the moonlight on the wall — 
Love, are these wild fancies true? 
Floating near me, is it you? 

Years may come and years may go, 
Frosted hair may turn to snow, 
And I linger here below; 
But my soul in summer's bloom, 
As amid the winter's gloom, 
Like a wild-bird lost at sea, 
Day and night calls out for thee. 
Throngh the golden gates of Sleep 
Send some message I may keep, 
Some sweet token I may shrine 
Like an amulet divine, 
Till upon that summer shore 
Where Time's surges cease to roar. 
Meeting, we shall part no more. 



W. L. SHELTON AND MRS. E. J. PHILLIPS. 



The wintry sky looks down to-day 
Upon two graves. On the red clay 

So bare and bleak nor grass nor bloom 
Tells Love has watched beside each tomb; 



A VOICE FROM THE SOUTH. 245 

Yet till the gentle spring-time hours 
BriniT their fair ofterina^ of flowers, 

I lay beside the sacred shrine 

This fiiint meraorial-song of mine. 

Dear sister, in my heart to-day 

Thou livest still, though mortals say 
That thou art dead. But 0! there be 

Some living far more dead to me. 
Where angel-pinions come and go 

O'er lily-flelds of billowy snow. 
Where blooms the fadeless asphodel. 

Where never echo comes to tell 
Of sin or death, thou roamest now— 

The victor's wreath upon thy brow, 
AVhich erst a crown of sorrow bore; 

And heaven has one angel more. 

My brother, not in blood but love, 

Thou sleepest well. Storms sweep above 
Thy resting-place, suns rise and set. 

Moons grow and wane; and yet, and yet 
Thou wakest not. I can but sigh. 

With tearful eyes, Would it were I! 
I, from whose sky sw^eet faith and trust 

Have crumbled into shapeless dust! 
I, frail and sorrowful, for whom 

Hope's fairy flowers no more may bloom! 
Alas! for me it had been well 

If mine had been that double knell. 
For thee the earth had joys in store, 

For mc it has but little more; 



246 A VOWm FROM THE SOUTH. 

How much of grief — ah! who can tell 

But He who "doeth all things well?" 
Ah! would this broken life of mine 

Could AVith its loss have purchased thine! 
Vain, vain that wish; but may'st thou stand, 

Redeemed and pure, at God's right-hand, 
When that great, awful day shall flame. 

Which, bowed to earth, I scarce dare name! 



CAPTAIN JASPER J. JONES. 



The toll of a passing-bell— 
Like a leaden weight on each heart it fell, 
And my soul bowed down as it swept the air, 
As "the faithful" bend at the call to prayer. 
What does thy mournful utterance tell, 

passing-bell? 

The toll of a passing-bell — 
What soul floats up on its liquid swell 
To the far-otf fields of asphodel ? 
I heard a wail as it floated by 
'Keath the starry arch of a wintry sky, 
And I saw a fair young infant pressed 
With a moan to a widowed mother's breast — 
"Madge and the baby," drooping there, 
Reft of their guardian's tender care — 
Ah! toll low, with a mournful swell. 

Thou passing-bell. 



A VOICE FROM THE SOUTH. 247 

Toll, toll, O passing-bell ! 
Toll for one who is sleeping well. 

" Madge and the baby " (0 pathos deep !) 
Never again for him may keep 
Watch at the window or watch at the door, 

" For," saith the bell, " he will come nevermore; " 
But when, at the far-ofF " beantiliil gate," 
Wife and child shall for entrance wait. 
Who do you think will guide them in 
To the realms which know not sorrow or sin? 
Ah ! what hand but the one so dear, 
Torn from them, once their guardian here ? 
So till they meet at the Aidenn-gate, 
Let "Madge and the baby" patiently wait! 
Toll sadly for earth's farewell, 
Thou passing-bell. 



MAMIE TERREL, 



Gently fold the waxen fingers. 
Free forever now from pain, 

Nevermore on earth to flutter. 
Deftly weaving clover-chain. 

Now no more the busy footsteps 
Wander swiftl}^ to and fro. 

Searching out the nooks and corners 
Where the clover-blossoms blow. 

Nevermore her voice will echo. 
Like a fountain's silvery play. 

Rippling in some merry message 
To her playmate o'er the way. 



248 A VOICE FROM THE SO UTH. 

Couched amid the snowy lilies 
In the " islands of the blest," 

Lulled by mnsic of the angels, 
Is your little one at rest. 

She was but a treasure lent you 
Till her snowy wings had grown — 

Do not murmur, sad-eyed mother, 
That the Master claimed his own; 

That through infinite spaces, 
Far beyond the farthest star. 

Another angel floated 

Through the golden gates ajar. 



MR. AND MRS. BUTLER ANDERSON. 



Butler Anderson, connected officially with the Howard Associa- 
tion, and his accomplished wife both sacrificed their lives, as will be 
remembered, in efforts to save others during the great yellow-fever 
plague at Grenada, Miss., in 1878. The dying-words of his wife 
were: "Lay my left-hand above my heart, and place on it my wed 
ding-ring." 

" Lay my left-hand on my heart, 
And on it my wedding-ring," 
She murmured as over her crept 
The shadow of Azrael's wing. 

The poet may tune his lyre 

To the glories hidden away 
For centuries, now unveiled, 

In the bosom of Lorav; 



A VOICE FROM THE SOUTH. 249 

But I know a temple still 

Unsoiled by a touch profane, 
For the sealed-up depths of love 

In the heart are a holy fane; 

And the dying-words of a wife, 
Ere her soul had left its shrine, 

Were a theme for a prouder harp 
And a firmer hand than mine. 

O wonderful chrism of love ! 

The chrysalis empty lies. 
And its tenant basks in the light 

Of eternity's radiant skies. 

Yet ere its flight, in these words 

It left to the world a trace, 
Swift as a lightning-gleam, 

Of an angel's glorious face. 

O beautiful flowers of the South ! 

"Wed with your fragrance her words; 
Bear them aloft to the sky, 

O sweetest of singing-birds! 

So a true wife's name and love 
From earth may not pass away, 

But gleam with a brighter light 
Than the glories of Loray. 



V^ 




"mm^. 




